


The Quickening

by Desert_Sea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cunnilingus, Double Penetration in Two Holes, Extracorporeal sex, F/M, Male Slash, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Toys, Some non-con/dub-con, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 03:28:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 67,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5769541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desert_Sea/pseuds/Desert_Sea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this battle of wills and intellects, neither Severus Snape nor Hermione Granger is willing to give an inch. The result is a fiery feud that threatens to undo them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Quickening

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there. This is my first attempt at writing so all feedback welcome and appreciated.
> 
> All characters, things and places are owned by J.K. Rowling. I have enjoyed the opportunity to play with them. I make no money from it.

He peered down his long nose at the students before him, bumbling around and knocking into one another like short-sighted moles in their haste to complete their potions. Occasionally, they would shoot a desperate glance at the golden grains of sand slithering through the hourglass propped on the front corner of his desk.

‘Dunderheads,’ he thought. Not for the first time that lesson. ‘Utterly hopeless. The lot of them.’

He knew it was unfair. He had sprung the test on them without warning. It was a petty torment he employed for his own amusement. One of many in his ever-expanding repertoire. Peeling Boomslangs was another. The easiest way of course was to boil them and then pop them out of their jackets like potatoes. But he enjoyed watching the students dry retching as they pulled at the fetid sinews. Fresh ones would have done perfectly well but where was the fun in that?

Severus Snape checked himself. He was at risk of smiling at the vivid images that swam through his mind’s eye. Not smiling was another of his passions. It was surprisingly difficult at times but he was well-practised in the art, which indeed it was, often putting his severe frown to good use and to impressive effect. As he did now. There was a flurry of ineffective activity as the hapless students, Longbottom amongst them, flapped around under his stern gaze.

He sighed deeply. And loudly. Not because he needed to but because it caused even greater consternation. Longbottom’s agonised expression looked like he might have, indeed, evacuated his namesake.

‘Stop it,’ he admonished himself, setting his jaw. He was on the verge of smiling again. And he mustn’t. Absolutely not. He had worked too hard, galvanizing his brittle, cantankerous persona with layer upon layer of practised humiliation, belittlement and haughty disregard. It would be a shame to ruin it all now.   

But he had to admit that it was becoming less satisfying. Haunting the dungeons, lurking in the shadows, catching unsuspecting students in compromising positions, and menacing the fresh-faced first years were no longer pasttimes that he enjoyed. Not that the ‘Greasy Bat’ nickname that the students muttered as he swept past offended him. He cared little for the opinions of the student body. It was just that . . . well it felt increasingly meaningless. All of it. Everything had become boring and mostly pointless since the war.

All of his adult life had been dedicated to harnessing and honing not only the silky finesse of subterfuge but the explosive savagery of outright fiery destruction. He could call forth both with ease. And now. There was nothing. Nowhere for this release. No lighting rod to guide this irrepressible surge of energy, potent and pervasive, crackling and sparking through his veins, safely to earth. Nothing to dissipate its power. And so he had to create. Manufacture opportunities, as feeble as they were. Otherwise the slippery tendrils of pulsating energy turned inward, causing a crushing tightness in his chest, a mounting electrified tension that sharpened his senses to excruciating precision and stole his breath away. In these moments he felt that his over-taxed heart might actually finally give in. It was the quickening. And when it came he had learnt to rapidly dip into his arsenal of targets. If caught early enough, the tension could be diffused like a zap of static electricity, obliterated in a harsh word to the closest victim or in flashing retaliation to some, usually benign, threat. If allowed to build up, however, it could be dangerous. Extremely dangerous.

He pressed his lips against long steepled fingers, tilting his head in consideration of the tumultuous inner workings of his mind. To the students, however, he appeared to be appraising them with even greater scrutiny. Their agitated movements became even more feverish and Snape realised that he would have to put an end to their misery before Longbottom caused yet another accident. He narrowed his eyes at the hourglass and flicked his fingers imperceptibly. The sand sluiced through in a final wave and was still.

Protests bubbled up around the room, as the students realised that their time was up. They could have sworn that the hourglass was at least a quarter full when they last stole a glance.

“Your time is now up,” Snape drawled. He drew his robes around his body and stood, enjoying looking down upon their weary faces.

“If . . . your potion was brewed correctly . . .“ He halted for effect. “It should be pale green and have the consistency of custard. If . . . you have not managed to follow the simple instructions provided. You have clearly not been paying attention.” He glared around the room, his obsidian eyes resting on each face in turn. “And you have failed.”

Arms crossed, he took slow, deliberate steps to appraise each cauldron in turn. His black pointed boots echoed on the stone floor, adding to the tension.

‘Slop. Snot. Gloop. Pus.’ He ticked off the consistency of each failure, internally, as he passed.

“This looks like vomit, Weasley.” He peered at the contents of Ron’s cauldron. Ron stared back, head slightly bowed. He knew it looked pretty bad.

Professor Snape progressed back and forth through the rows, congratulating himself on achieving a perfect failure rate. One hundred percent. There might even be grounds for a full class detention. He could do with restocking his supply of Boomslang . . . what the fuck?

He could tell, even in the dim light of the dungeon classroom, that the potion in the very last cauldron was perfect. He sighed. Hermione fucking Granger.

He looked disparagingly at her, scanning her face for the usual smug self-possession, typical of the insufferable know-it-all. His roving gaze was met by a look that could only be described as grim determination. When had that happened? Had the girl suddenly changed? Or had it been so long since he had actually taken the time to genuinely analyse a student’s emotions that he had missed the transition altogether.

“Miss Granger,” he intonated, his tone clipped. “It would seem that you have managed to produce a passable sample. It’s a pity only one of this class has managed such a thing.”

He watched for the glow to alight her features. He knew that this was what she craved. What she fed upon. Even the most bland utterance resembling praise could leave her reeling. Again he was disappointed. The frown that knitted her brow was not what he expected. If anything, she looked angry. He definitely wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of such an expression, particularly from a student.

“Professor,” she said, her brown eyes flickering away nervously before returning to his.

“Yesss?” He drew the word out, raising an eyebrow as if daring her to voice her obvious displeasure.

“I believe there is an error in the recipe you provided.” She held out her parchment. It trembled slightly between her fingers. “It should say Ribwort, not Ragwort. I remember it from the potions text in fourth year. I made the correct substitution when brewing my own.”

Professor Snape’s eyebrows dropped into an intense scowl and his dark eyes flashed with fury. He snatched the parchment out of her hand.

“I believe the error is on every parchment,” Hermione continued, her voice turning raspy as her throat constricted, trying to prevent her from speaking. It was attempting to protect her from herself, but she couldn’t let this go. A mistake was a mistake after all. Despite her knotted stomach, she knew it was important to speak up. Otherwise the test was unfair and unfairness was something that she absolutely couldn’t tolerate.

“And I think your hourglass might be broken,” she rasped. “The last two minutes passed in only four seconds . . . by my watch.” Her last words were a strangled whisper, as her throat closed over completely.

Professor Snape glared at her, his nostrils flaring as he attempted to process her insolent ramblings. An error? He scanned the parchment. There it was. Ragwort. Fuck, she was right. How had that happened? The useless house elf he’d asked to scrawl twenty five identical copies of the recipe must have fucked it up. Shit.

And she must have seen his wandless magic on the hourglass. Should he just admit it? Admit to everyone that he was responsible, that it had been a careless error on his part? Never.

“Detention, Miss Granger.” His voice was dangerously calm. “You will come here for the next four evenings to re-write all of the recipes, as you are so adamant that they are incorrect.”

“They are incorrect!”

“Silence!” he growled, slamming a hand down onto the desk in front of her.

She jumped involuntarily, her eyes widening. But he could still see the fiery glow of anger in their depths.

‘Little chit,’ he thought. Who the fuck did she think she was? Didn’t she know what he was capable of?

“Get out. All of you.” He suddenly turned away from her and waved a hand, flinging open the classroom door with a loud bang.

Everyone immediately started packing their bags. Eager to get away from the volatile Professor, whom they had all noticed was becoming increasingly vicious as the weeks passed.

Snape uttered further words under his breath and the recipe parchments flew from the student desks back to his own, assembling in a neat pile. He was breathing heavily through his nose. Trying to control the sensations that were trickling like mercury through his body. Building with rapid intensity. He felt ready to explode. Luckily the students had exited with such haste.

“What a fuck up,” he hissed.

“What time?” The voice came from behind him.

He whirled around to see Hermione Granger, bag in hand, chin raised defiantly.

“What?!” He glowered, barely able to see straight.

“What time do you want me here for detention?” She enunciated each word as if he were hard of hearing.

The muscles in his face twitched spasmodically under his pale skin. He was as angry as she had ever seen him. Even in the heat of battle. She was beginning to think that he’d also lost the capacity for speech when he suddenly straightened, glaring down his nose at her.

“Seven pm,” he spat icily, before turning on his heel and disappearing in a billowing twirl of robes through a door in the front wall of the classroom.

“I can’t wait,” Hermione murmured, her blood still thrumming steadily in her ears. She had only three months until she would never have to see the bastard again. She could ride it out. She was destined for bigger and better things than that miserable git could ever dream of.


	2. Chapter 2

Severus Snape paced his chambers like a caged lion. He was losing control . . . had lost control. It wasn’t like him. Not like the Snape of old who could quell any dissention with a withering sneer. Was he losing his touch? Turning soft in his old age? All he knew was that he needed to up his game. Take back control.

What had he told that arrogant weasel, Potter? “Discipline your mind?” Well, he certainly wasn’t a paragon of success in that department. Not lately anyway. He wanted to blame the quickening, but the girl’s defiant expression kept swimming back into view. He couldn’t remember a look like that from anyone in recent times and certainly not a student. As a Death Eater and Spy, he could rely upon his mere presence sending people into fearful convulsions.

If that bitch thought she had his measure, she was sorely mistaken. He would not be humiliated by the likes of her again.

***

Hermione was in no hurry to attend her detention in the dungeons. In the past she would have arrived at least fifteen minutes early, hoping to appease the professor with her punctuality. But she had grown up. She was seventeen years old and no longer cared to please her professors in the way that she had strived to as a child. She had a mind of her own and was carving out a destiny that extended well beyond her N.E.W.T.s, which she was confident she would pass with ease.

She wasn’t sure where her current attitude had sprung from. Certainly the war had forced her to grow up. Survival had made her determined to create a future of her choosing. A future, she hoped, without fear. But Professor Snape seemed determined to ensure that, even with the war won, they should continue with an exhausting hyper-vigilance, a habit of perpetual anxiety. And for what reason? To massage his inordinately large ego. Well if he thought she was going to help him with that he was sorely mistaken.

She couldn’t help her body’s practised response to his intimidating demeanour and degrading remarks – in full flight the ferocity of the powerful wizard was on a par with Voldemort. But she would be damned if she would let her mind cave in to his demands to be kowtowed to without question. His actions in the classroom today were unfair. It was an impossible test and he had cheated them out of the allocated time. This was not the first time that he had set them up to fail so that he could berate and belittle them. But it was the first time she had spoken up.

It was a shame because she would have enjoyed the opportunity to discuss the vagaries of potion-making with him as an adult, as a mentor. She’d even started keeping a journal of original thoughts and theories about potion brewing. But he had become so caustic in the past months that she didn’t intend to spend an extra second with him if it could be helped. The latest detention would be hell. But she’d been to hell in the past. And come through intact. Well, almost.

***

“Enter.”

The instruction came only after Hermione had knocked and waited three times. It was now two minutes past seven. Clearly, his intention was to be adversarial. She took a deep breath and entered the classroom.

Professor Snape was at his desk, marking assignments with a flourish of his long, black quill. He didn’t look up even as she entered, trailing his efficient script across the scratchy parchments, as she slowly walked over and stood hovering only a few feet from his desk. Even as he ignored her, he oozed tension. She could feel it emanating from him like vapour from ice. Finally, she cleared her throat. He continued to write, only looking up as she was about to do it again.

“Miss Granger,” he said smoothly, somehow managing to look as if he were surprised to see her. She only just stopped herself from sighing out loud. The mind games had begun. 

His dark eyes were cold and his stare unwavering. The cracks she had witnessed earlier in the day had been smoothed over. This was not just Snape back in control, it was a resolute, reinforced, Snape. She shivered involuntarily and glimpsed the almost imperceptible rise of the corner of his mouth. It was a smirk at her expense, he was revelling in his power over her.

“I believe you know why you are here,” he said, leaning back and crossing his arms.

“Actually . . .” Hermione began.

“So I won’t waste any more time dwelling on your behaviour,” he interrupted. “The recipe and parchments are over there.” He nodded at the desk facing his own. “You will complete twenty five copies of the recipe and you will not speak.”

Hermione gave a slow blink of barely supressed fury but raised her chin and walked as nonchalantly as she could to the desk, shooting him a look of disgust before plonking down in the seat and snatching up the quill that had been placed there.

It was all Professor Snape could do to stop himself from laughing out loud. She certainly had changed from the desperate swot he remembered. Where had this wild cat come from? It amused him and, if he were perfectly honest, excited him. He continued to mark his assignments but had deliberately positioned her desk so that he could watch her surreptitiously. He wanted to know what he was up against. What he needed to decipher, dissect, investigate, probe. His lips twitched again and he felt a shot of warm saliva on his tongue. His body obviously found her simmering fury quite delectable. His mind wasn’t so sure.

He was watching her. He was pretending not to, but she could feel the weight of his gaze upon her like a thin cloak of scorn, rendering her movements self-consciously sluggish. Bastard. Why couldn’t he just let her take her punishment in peace? His long nimble fingers manipulated his quill with comparative dexterity, he flicked through parchments and traced across his grade ledger with the fluidity of a pianist, a virtuoso, he had mastered the art of student anguish. She could just imagine the spiteful remarks he was carving across their hard work. What a Prick.

She knew he was watching her. He could tell. The tension in her jawline and the overzealous grip on her quill were dead give-aways. The pulse that shuddered rhythmically at her pale throat was well over one hundred beats per minute. She wasn’t resting. That, he was sure of. She reminded him of a snake. It was probably a very Slytherin analogy but nonetheless, she was a coiled snake, one that you would see on a rock as a child and ask the innocent question “is it sleeping?” She was tuned in to his every movement.

Without warning, he stood up. His reflexes had always been lightning fast and he used them now to break the stalemate, to force her to show her hand. And she did. Spectacularly. She convulsed with shock and knocked over the bottle of ink. The black spread like pestilence over at least half of her completed recipe parchments.

“Fuck,” she hissed between clenched teeth.

He swiftly gathered up the assignments on his desk as if he hadn’t noticed.

“I expect you to atone for your carelessness tomorrow evening,” his low baritone voice slipped into both ears and she flicked her head irritably, trying to dislodge it.  

Without looking at her, he disappeared behind a swish of black fabric and was gone.

***

“Are you okay, Mione?” Ginny Weasley leapt from the armchair she had curled into, waiting for her best friend’s return. The Gryffindor common room was busy and Hermione couldn’t help looking sullen as groups of her peers chattered and laughed after a relaxing evening of exploding snap or Wizard’s chess.

“Fine.” Hermione huffed, raising a weary, ink-stained hand.

“He said something awful to you again didn’t he?” Ginny looked at her earnestly. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him these days. It’s not like he was ever nice but lately, well, it’s like he’s possessed or something.”

Hermione shook her head. “I wish he had said something. He was basically silent the whole time.”

“Well that’s okay isn’t it?” Ginny sat back down, pulling Hermione onto the armchair beside her. “I’d be more than happy if he just shut up and left me alone.”

“He was quiet but he hardly left me alone.”

Ginny frowned. “He didn’t . . . touch you did he?” she said, haltingly.

Hermione almost laughed. “No, of course not. It’s just that I could feel him, watching me. It was like his eyes were . . . slithering across my skin. I’m not joking Gin.” She could see her friend’s dubious expression. “It was palpable.”

Ginny glanced around. “I thought you were looking rather flushed. Is it just the rosy afterglow?”

Hermione gave her a murderous glare. “Don’t even joke about it Gin. I don’t want that man under my skin, on my skin or even looking at my skin.”

“Well, you’ve got three more days of detention,” Ginny said matter-of-factly. “What are you going to do? Wrap yourself in a sheet with just your eyes peeking out?”

Hermione looked as if she was seriously considering the suggestion.

Ginny sighed. “Give him some of his own medicine, Mione,” she said. “You’ve been dishing it out left, right and centre since the end of the war. Ron and Harry are walking on eggshells around you. Most of the other guys around here are afraid that you will take them down with one blow from your tongue.”

Hermione smirked. “Interesting turn of phrase.”

Ginny giggled, realising what she had said. “Well I think you could do it either way. And most would be happy for you to.”

Hermione slapped her on the knee, hard enough for Ginny to yelp and promise to change the topic of conversation. They spent the rest of the evening making extravagant plans for the holidays. Even if they never happened, it was a wonderful escape from the drudgery of the school that they felt they were rapidly out-growing.

***

In bed later that evening, Hermione thought about what Ginny had said. She was right, Hermione really didn’t put up with crap from anyone any more. Why should she? She had survived. Many hadn’t. Life was too short to waste on dim-witted, frivolous conversation with dull people. She sought out cognitive challenges and the exciting thrust and parry of intellectual sparring but unfortunately most of these exchanges were pretty one-sided – often with the authors of books she found in the Library, devouring each in quick, insatiable succession. It’s not like she thought she was superior to everyone else, it’s just that she no longer had the tolerance. Life was a terminal disease, that’s what her father used to say, too precious to waste a moment.

She sighed as she thought about wasted moments. Detention. What a bloody waste of time that was. But she was determined that she wouldn’t let herself succumb to the discomfort that Professor Snape seemed intent on putting her through. She would treat him with the contempt that he deserved. He might be able to force her into performing inane tasks but she would choose the mindset under which they were executed.

She might even muster up the enthusiasm to consider it an opportunity. Snape did, after all, have one of the wizarding world’s largest private collections of rare ingredients. She might even manufacture a reason to look through his stores. There was one particular ingredient that she was desperate to acquire. It was the last one required to produce a potion that she had already made a hundred times – but only in her mind. Theoretically, it should work. As far as she knew, nothing like it had ever been done before. All she needed was that one last ingredient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The phrase ‘like vapour from ice’ was borrowed from the writing of Teddy Radiator whom I greatly admire.


	3. Chapter 3

He was doing it again. Hermione could feel Snape’s eyes on her but when she dared to glance at him, he appeared to be thoroughly engrossed in a thick tome called ‘Age of Potions’. She wasn’t sure how he did it. He reminded her of the Mona Lisa, whose smile was only apparent when you weren’t looking directly at her. Of course he was also nothing like the painting, as he had never come close to smiling in the six years she had known him. She wondered what it must be like to be so miserable for so long.

Hermione continued to neatly transcribe the words to the potion recipe, not caring to dwell on the idea of Snape as a lonely, unhappy man. It served him right. He had brought all of it upon himself. She didn’t feel an ounce of sympathy for the man.

“Conflicted?”

Hermione jumped and inwardly berated herself. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t let the man, or his words, affect her. She kept writing and was secretly pleased with herself for not taking the bait.

When she didn’t respond, Professor Snape continued.

“When you feel compromised or faced with an internal dilemma, you chew your bottom lip,” he said, releasing the word ‘lip’ like he had just been sucking on it.

Hermione’s breathing quickened but she was desperate to remain calm. She also released her lip from between her teeth and made a promise that she would never chew it in his presence again. He was making it very difficult for her to stick to her planned demeanour of haughty contempt.

“Trouble in paradise?”

What was he talking about? She wished he would just shut up and leave her alone.

“Isn’t Mister Weasley . . . performing as he should?” Professor Snape’s nose was still buried in the tome.

Hermione snorted. Clearly, he was totally out of the loop with Hogwarts gossip. She was determined to make him feel left out.

“You must be a fan of ancient history,” she said, not looking at him.

There was a long pause before he prodded again.

“So he’s not the latest on the scene?”

Of course he wasn’t the latest on the scene.

“Not even close,” she said. And instantly regretted it. In her haste to make Snape feel on the outer, she had inadvertently made herself sound like a total slut.

“Really?” Snape looked up from his book, one eyebrow raised. His penetrating gaze fell on her and her eyes dropped back to stare intently at the page before her.

Why the fuck did she say that? She blew her hair out of her face, knowing she looked flustered. Thankfully she had only two more parchments to go. Hermione began writing more quickly, desperate to remove herself from his company as soon as possible.

“It won’t do to rush Miss Granger.” His voice was silky smooth. “You wouldn’t want to make an error with the transcription.”

The suggestion infuriated Hermione so much that her vision swam. The unfairness of it was threatening to overwhelm her. She cast about in her harried mind for a life line, something to stop her from going under completely. Then she had it. The potion ingredients. She would try to gain access to his private stores. It was a point of focus. A direction. And even if it didn’t work, she might have a chance of getting on Snape’s better side, if one actually existed.

She changed tack.

“What will you have me do after this?” she asked, slowing the pace of her quill strokes.

Professor Snape stared at her for a moment, noticing her shift in tone. What was she up to?

“I’m sure Mr Filch could find a use for you,” he said mildly. “He was just saying that he needed small hands for a . . . job he’s doing.”

Hermione was thrown again. The man was impossible. Everything he said had a double or triple or quadruple meaning. There was never a straight answer.

Professor Snape hid his smirk behind his book. She was so easy to manipulate. Like a marionette. He could pull at one string and she would raise her chin defiantly as expected, he could drop another string and her head would tilt at the thoughtful angle he intended. It was fascinating. And she looked genuinely appalled by his latest suggestion. She needn’t have worried, however, he had no intention of giving her to Filch. He was enjoying playing with her too much himself.

Observing her closely over the past two evenings, he had discovered so much that intrigued him. She was absolutely predictable in so many ways but full of complex contradictions in others. He found himself thinking about her more and more in his private time. And strangely enough, the quickening seemed to be somewhat abated in her presence, as if, with a steady target, it was prevented from building to uncomfortable proportions. He would be genuinely disappointed when the detention was over.

“Unless . . . you could offer your services in other ways?” He said, making an exaggerated show of licking the tip of his finger to turn the page of his book.

Hermione wanted to slam both hands on her desk and shout, “Are you asking for a fucking blow job?”

Instead she remained surprisingly composed, focusing on the task at hand.

“I noticed that your ingredient stores are getting low.” She was pleased to find that her voice remained controlled. “The bottom shelf with the student supplies has four jars that are almost empty. I could restock them for you.”

Professor Snape drew a finger down the length of his nose, considering her suggestion. It was true. He had allowed supplies to run low, perhaps unconsciously hoping it would cause further angst for the students. He noticed that her brown eyes no longer simmered with the anger that he had become accustomed to over the past two evenings but held motes of hopeful anticipation. He quite liked how it made him feel. But he hadn’t forgotten the humiliation that she had inflicted upon him only days before. He had endured intense and prolonged humiliation throughout his life and it had come to be his undoing. It always brought forth waves of other emotions from the earliest days of his life that he simply couldn’t tolerate. It was the main reason he had become a Death Eater. Out of everything she could have done to him, it was somehow the worst.

“Re-stocking the ingredients won’t take you long. You will also make yourself useful by polishing the glassware.” He snapped the book closed and was pleased to see her inadvertently scribble on the parchment she was working on. Without another word he disappeared into his chambers, leaving Hermione biting her lip, feeling conflicted.

***

The next day, Hermione found herself actually looking forward to detention. She had been desperate to spend time in Snape’s ingredients storeroom ever since first year. For the first three years, they weren’t allowed in there at all (she had only been in once) and for the past few years they could only enter if accompanied by Professor Snape, himself. Today, hopefully, she would be in there alone and could explore to her heart’s content. She would also have the opportunity to escape Professor Snape’s constant and wholly unnerving gaze.

He hadn’t said or done anything particularly overt over the past two evenings, but that seemed to be the root of the problem. His manner was subversive and his methods insidious. She knew that she wasn’t imagining the innuendos and double entendres - they were all part of his mind games.

Although she arrived early, Hermione did not dare knock until her watch had ticked over to 7 pm. The last thing she wanted was to appear over-eager. She knocked softly but caught her breath when the door was suddenly yanked open.  

“Miss Granger.” Professor Snape nodded curtly before stalking back into the room.

She craved consistency. Something reliable in his mood or demeanour. But there was nothing. He seemed intent upon keeping her off balance. Constantly changing the rules. To be honest, he was doing her head in.

“You will re-fill the ingredients in the jars and then move onto polishing the glassware,” he instructed, his back to her. He seemed particularly dismissive as he sat down, straight-backed at his desk, focusing on the stack of parchments before him.

Regardless, she was grateful for the chance to extend the physical and mental distance between herself and the man who was rapidly becoming her nemesis, making her way to the room at the back of the class. Entering the forbidden space was like walking into a wonderland. The smell was complex and intoxicating. She couldn’t place any particular element, yet it was comfortably familiar.

There were two entire shelves filled with glassware. The equipment was rarely used by the students, even in their final year, but Hermione knew through extensive research that it was required for the distillation, titration and separation of ingredients. Not every component was useable in its native form, many requiring purification prior to their inclusion in recipes. It was fascinating and Hermione found herself absorbed in the process of simply looking before Snape’s voice reached her from the classroom.

“Unless you intend to spend the remainder of the evening in that room, I suggest you actually start doing something.”

Clearly, it was too much to hope that he would just leave her to her own devices. No matter. She was in her element and was happy to comply. She busied herself with checking the stores on the bottom shelf and re-filling them from the large containers of stock ingredients at the back of the room. There was so much to delight in: the worn metal scoops, containers of tiny coloured beetle’s eyes, pungent sulfuric powders, glass decanters of viscous honey-coloured liquids and vials of iridescent crystals. She had trouble finding the lacewing fly stocks and finally discovered them on the fourth shelf up. If she stretched up high enough she might just be able to . . .

She felt it like a gentle caress up her bare arm. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his hand glide up beside hers, the sleeve of his frock coat trailing up her skin until his fingers grasped the jar beyond her reach.

“Your stature is not suited to this task,” his deep voice drawled just behind her. She felt herself recoiling, drawing in. “Perhaps a ladder is in order.”

She felt him move away, leaving a peculiar void around her. Before she could even determine the nature of it, he had returned with a wooden ladder which fitted perfectly against the shelves. Then he was gone. Hermione rubbed her fingers absent-mindedly along her tingling forearm. He hadn’t even touched her and yet his presence lingered. It was off-putting to say the least.

Trying to dismiss it from her mind, Hermione decided it would be safer to move on to the glassware. She found a soft cloth on one of the shelves and began to polish. It was pleasing to see the shine she could buff into each item with a bit of elbow grease. In fact, she found it so soothing and satisfying that she was shocked when she looked at her watch to find that it was already five minutes to nine. She was suddenly desperate to see what was on the top shelf before she had to leave. Glancing around to make sure that she was alone, she started to climb the ladder.

The wooden finish was so smooth to the touch, she realised that it must have come from years of use. Unbidden, the image of Snape’s agile hands moving up and down its length came into view. She shivered involuntarily and continued to climb. When she reached the top shelf, eyes roving over the various jars and phials, she gasped in surprise. It was more than she could have hoped for. Amongst the incredibly rare collection of ingredients which included Unicorn blood, Dragon scales, Mammoth tusk and Werewolf fangs, she discovered her final ingredient, the one she had day-dreamed about finding for nigh on a year - Phantasmal ectoplasm. She lifted the small vial to peer inside. The blue essence seemed to have a life of its own, translucent and ethereal, it drifted around the inner walls like a tiny trapped fog.

She felt like she could watch its magical form bobbing and churning for hours . . .  something clamped tightly around her wrist and dragged her forcibly down the ladder. She was only dimly aware of sliding against the rungs before her feet finally struck one and held. She found herself face to face with a seething Professor Snape.

“What . . . do you think . . . you are doing?”

Hermione couldn’t speak. She was trapped between the hard wooden rungs and his even harder chest, his large nose hovering only an inch from hers. As she drew in ragged breaths, she was mortified to discover that her top shirt button had been ripped off, revealing her, now heaving, lace-edged cleavage.

“I said . . . what do you think you are doing?”

As each word dripped from his tongue, it simultaneously reverberated through her chest, such was the closeness of their proximity.

“I . . .”

Her words failed her again. His eyes were the blackest of orbs, drilling relentlessly into her own. Despite her intense fear, she was struck by the bizarre sense that, with their bodies pressed together and one of her arms held rigidly above her head, they could be dancing. Although his grip was now so painful that she was at risk of dropping her precious find.

“I’m sorry Professor,” she gasped. “I was only . . . “

His sole movement was the slightest inflection of one eyebrow.

“I was only . . . looking . . .”

“Only looking?” His words were deep and guttural. “Well if only looking is a reasonable explanation for one’s behaviour . . .”

He leant back slightly and slowly dragged his eyes from her face, sliding his gaze down her neck, to her exposed cleavage. He blatantly ogled the smooth, creamy peaks, his warm breath gushing over them as they rose and fell. Hermione flushed crimson as she felt her nipples hardening against the rough fabric of his frock coat. They were like beacons of shame and he tilted his head to the side to show that he had noticed, slowly running his tongue across his upper lip.

He had made his point.

“I’m really so sorry Professor.” Hermione’s words came out in a rush. “It was wrong of me to look through your private stores without permission. I . . . I would never normally do such a thing.”

“Really?” He said drily.

Hermione winced. He was referring to the Polyjuice potion.

“Not now,” she said weakly. “I’ve actually developed a keen interest in potions and I’ve . . . well I think I’ve come up with an original recipe for a potion . . . I don’t think it’s ever been made before.”

He humphed derisively and she blinked at the sudden blast of his peppermint and sage breath on her face.

“I know it’s hard to fathom. Perhaps with my current behaviour. And the fact that very few novel potions have been created in the past few decades. But I’ve done a lot of research. I’m almost positive it will work.”

He sneered at her and she winced, the pain in her wrist was almost unbearable.

“I’m afraid that if you don’t let me go, I might drop this Phantasmal ectoplasm and I don’t think either of us wants that.”

He continued to hold her in his vice-like grip.

“What is this potion called?” He spat the letter ‘p’ in her face.

“It doesn’t have a name,” she said. “And I’m not entirely sure what it will do. But I’d dearly like to try to make it.”

He stared at her. He was thinking. He couldn’t believe that he was actually considering her words. He would very much enjoy seeing her spectacularly fail, but he would enjoy even more exploring how much she desperately wanted it.

“You will trial brewing this potion in my presence tomorrow evening.” He released her wrist and snatched the vial out of her hand, all in one motion. Without speaking he dropped it in his coat pocket and deliberately leant forward, crushing her further with both hands braced on either side of the ladder before pushing himself away and striding out of the room.

***

“What happened?!” Ginny cried as Hermione limped into her bedroom. Now that she was head girl at Hogwarts, she had the luxury of a room of her own, but allowed Ginny to use it sometimes for study.

“I fell.” Hermione muttered, clutching her bruised wrist. “It was my fault.”

“What do you mean it was your fault?” Ginny frowned, putting an arm around her friend’s shoulders.

When Hermione suddenly pulled away, Ginny narrowed her eyes. “What did he do to you?”

“Nothing.” Hermione answered too quickly.

“Let me see.” Ginny stepped around her and pulled up the back of her shirt.

“What the fuck did he do to you!” she cried. “Your back looks like it’s covered in Lavender Brown’s eyeshadow.”

Hermione sighed. “It was nothing Gin. I fell down a ladder and hurt myself. I shouldn’t have been up there. It was my fault.”

“Stop saying it was your fault.” Ginny admonished her. “You sound like a domestic violence victim.”

Hermione considered. It wasn’t that far from the truth.

“If that Asshole hurt you, you need to stand up for yourself,” she said. “Where’s your Gryffindor pride? The Hermione I know would have kneed him in the bollocks and bitten his enormous nose off.”

Hermione gave a weary smile despite herself. “It wasn’t like that,” she said. Although it most certainly was.

“What are you going to do about it?” Ginny demanded, hands on hips and genuine concern on her face.

Hermione looked her in the eye. “Don’t worry Gin. I have a plan. That Bastard’s not going to know what’s hit him.”


	4. Chapter 4

The following evening brought with it a sense of wary excitement. Hermione almost daren’t believe that the potion she had been dreaming about for the past year may actually come into existence within the next two hours. At the same time she knew it was a long shot. The chances of making a novel potion successfully the first time were slim, and even slimmer was the possibility of it working as intended. Her excitement was also tempered by her apprehension at what Snape may have in store for her. Despite the pain he had caused, she felt he had given in to her request too easily, especially since she had been caught plundering his most precious stores without permission. But as this was her final night of detention, she was willing to suffer through it. And if the potion turned out as she hoped, nothing Snape could do to her would compare to what she had in store for him.

He was surprisingly courteous when she knocked on the classroom door, ushering her in without the usual terse dismissal. He had even prepared a cauldron and bench for her to work on. She wondered if he had misgivings about the way he had treated her the previous evening, although she suspected that he didn’t possess a conscience that allowed such a thing. After quietly waiting for him to take up his usual position at his desk, she opened her well-worn journal and began the process of assimilating ingredients. She knew the recipe and process by heart but wanted the book for assurance and to keep her on track in case Snape’s mood changed and he decided to do something that would knock her off kilter.

She had already collected a number of ingredients from shops in Knockturn Alley and Hogsmeade, and had even found some rare herbs on a trip deep into the Forbidden Forest with Hagrid the previous spring. The other ingredients were relatively common and in plentiful supply in the store room. And then there was the issue of acquiring the Phantasmal ectoplasm that she suspected Snape would only surrender with some sort of painful compromise. It was the final ingredient required for the recipe and it needed to be handled in a very specific way. She decided to leave that tricky negotiation until she had made all the other preparations.

Hermione spent the next hour in relative silence, measuring, chopping, stirring and observing. Professor Snape watched her carefully and was somewhat surprised to discover that her actions were no longer bumbling and laboured. She moved, instead, with precision and dexterity. Fine droplets of perspiration gathered on her brow as she worked, seemingly absolutely focused on the task, as if she had forgotten he was there altogether. He realised that she approached brewing in a manner not dissimilar to himself. There was a passion for the process. An appreciation for executing each step with meticulous care. It was both disarming and enticing. He felt himself being drawn to her, not for the first time. The sensation of her pressed against his body had never quite left and the heat of her pert breasts, grazing against his chest like ripe peaches came back to him now. Despite his intention to prove a point to the insolent chit, he had only just managed to stop himself from burying his face in those delectable mounds and now found himself salivating at the thought.

He knew it was entirely inappropriate. She was, after all, his student. Even if it was only for another three months. Then there was the utter distrust that he should feel for her. She was damaged and angry after the war. It was something he understood, but it made her dangerously unpredictable. Her resentment for him was also palpable and while this should have been off-putting, for some reason, possibly due to the hyper-acuity of his senses caused by the quickening, he found it titillating.

“How did you acquire the Phantasmal ectoplasm?” Her voice cut through his thoughts.

“Peeves,” he replied. “When he was petrified by the basilisk, he released a small amount. I discreetly collected it from the scene while all hell was breaking loose. It’s the only useful thing he’s ever done.”

It was the first time he’d seen her smile in his presence. The desire within him grew.

She had clearly completed most of the steps in the brew and, as he watched, her bottom lip slipped between her teeth. She was wrestling with something and he knew exactly what it was.

She worried the soft pink bud for a few moments more before she appeared to gather enough courage to ask.

“I was wondering if I might have the essence now?”

He didn’t respond, keeping his face neutral, drawing out her obvious agony. Her body was rigid with anticipation. It felt wonderful to know he was responsible.

Rising slowly from his chair, he sauntered over to her, dipping into his pocket and producing the vial. He held it between his thumb and index finger, waiting for her to take it from him.

She held her breath. She was back to trying to steal past the sleeping three headed dog, Fluffy, knowing that, at any moment, she might be savaged. Her hand closed around the cool glass and as she pulled away, he dipped his index finger down, trailing it delicately along her own. Again, it could have been accidental but it wasn’t. He lingered a moment and then turned swiftly on his heel, returning to his desk to the sound of her shuddering breath being released.

She was shaken but relieved to have the precious ingredient with nothing more than a squirming stomach and tingling skin. She had given up on hoping that her body would obey her commands when he was near. It was a physical impossibility. And he knew it.

The recipe called for a mixture of the essence, powdered bone and liquefied fat to be heated in a conical flask over a moderate magical flame. The final addition to the mixture was to be three drops of her own blood. Measured in turns around a standard glass stirring rod, Hermione dipped the end of the rod in the swirling blue essence and gently twisted it to create a fine spiral strand. Three turns would be sufficient. She broke the strand away from the remainder of the essence and dipped it into the flask with the other ingredients, which were already bubbling away gently. Finally, she removed a razor blade from her pocket and, without hesitation, drew it along the tip of her index finger, allowing the rapid scarlet trickle to drip into the flask. Wrapping her finger in a handkerchief from the same pocket, she began to stir.

It was as if he had apparated directly behind her. One second he was sitting at his desk and the next he was standing so close that she was enveloped by a heady fragrance of cloves and sandalwood. One large hand slowly closed over her small one, while the other rested lightly on her opposite hip.

“The essence must not be plundered,” he drawled silkily in her ear, slowing her hand, and the glass rod in it, to a more leisurely rhythm.

“Stirring it is a sensuous process.”

He deliberately drew out the ‘s’ sounds, she thought, like the sly snake that he was.

“The rod should not be thrust . . . in and out . . . erratically. Allow it to establish its own natural rhythm. Do you feel that?”

She certainly did. And it wasn’t the rod in her hand. He was standing slightly to one side, with his groin above her hip. She could feel the heat emanating from him and her mind was screaming for him to move away. But she wanted to finish this potion. She needed it. So she remained passive, allowing him to continue moving her hand in languid circles. Just when she thought she couldn’t take any more, he took the stirring rod from her, capturing her hand in the one that had been resting upon her hip. She watched as he gently removed the handkerchief that was still wrapped around her finger then, agonizingly slowly, pulled her hand back towards him. She couldn’t see his face at all but suddenly felt a warm wetness as his mouth closed around the tip of her injured finger, sucking gently.

She felt her stomach clench and an exquisite ache in the core of her womanhood. There was a warm gush between her legs and she tried to close them quickly but his foot was wedged between her feet, splinting her legs apart. Finger still in his mouth he circled it gently with his soft tongue and she felt she might pass out.

“I . . . I . . . think . . .” She cleared her throat, trying to remove the constriction there.

“I . . . think I have it now, Professor.” She said in a small voice.

He gently released her finger from his mouth, then lowered his head near her shoulder and breathed in deeply, blatantly smelling her arousal.

“I believe you have.” He said, his deep voice rumbling along her spine. Her legs threatened to give way but she closed her eyes and repeated to herself, “My mind is my own. My mind is my own.”

He departed as quickly as he had arrived and she could see a rhythmic shaking in his broad shoulders as he strode toward his desk. He was laughing at her. Until now, she hadn’t known exactly how she would use the potion. But in this moment she was absolutely certain and even more determined that it should work. It had to.

 

***

 

The following morning, Professor Snape sat at his desk, bored with his final year potions class who appeared to be getting along perfectly well with their brewing. The quickening was making him tense and he was glad that Hermione was there to watch. She seemed particularly withdrawn, avoiding his gaze, and he suspected that the humiliation from the previous evening was weighing upon her. He didn’t feel any sympathy, as it was her attempts to humilate him that had led to the detention in the first place. But he was still disappointed that it was over. It was the most exciting four days he had spent since the war.

Suddenly he felt it. A strange sensation like something creeping slowly over his thigh. He looked down but could only see the usual cut of his tailored black pants. It continued. A swirling tickle that trailed from left to right and back again. Then the sensation crept up his leg, further and further until it was uncomfortably close to his groin. He hoped that some loathsome creature hadn’t somehow crawled up the leg of his pants. Frowning deeply, he was contemplating jumping up and checking, when he noticed something peculiar. Hermione Granger seemed to be focusing intently on a book before her, but her fingers were trailing slowly across her desk, drawing out an identical pattern to the sensation that was prickling across his leg. When her fingers swirled on the surface of her desk, it was mimicked by the feel of swirling fingertips on his thigh. What in Merlin’s name was going on?

She still appeared to be thoroughly engrossed in the book but her fingers edged forward on the desk, pushing further and further until Severus felt the sensation slipping under his boxer shorts, sliding along the outer edge of his balls. His mouth dropped open and he started breathing through it. His head felt light. The hand on her desk rubbed gently and his cock leapt. It felt just like her fingers were brushing lightly along his length. He started to panic. The quickening was making it hard for him to think. And so did her . . . Oh Gods!

He watched as she slowly picked up the smooth granite pestle from the mortar on her desk and wrapped her fingers around it. She absent-mindedly rubbed her hand up and down its smooth length and the sensation was transferred directly to his dick, which was now straining painfully against his trousers, creating a tell-tale tent under his desk. Since she was in the back row of the room and her movements were casual, almost nonchalant, she drew no attention. The same couldn’t be said for him. As his ragged breathing increased in intensity and volume, he stared down at a parchment on his desk as if it were the source of his discontent. Students shot curious glances in his direction. He had to get out of there. Fast.

He glanced up and was transfixed by what he saw. Hermione continued to regard her book with interest as she brought the end of the pestle to her lips, stroking its length with greater intensity. He wanted to run but he couldn’t. He watched her mouth close over the bulbous end and almost screamed out loud, closing his throat in the same way he did when he was being tortured, desperately trying to stifle the noise. She swirled her tongue around as she sucked on the end before removing it from her mouth and dipping the tip of her tongue into the tiny circular indentation in the top.

That was his undoing. He leapt from his seat and wrapped his robes around himself in a protective curtain. Lurching forward, he knocked over his chair and unsteadily made his way to the back of the room, snatching up the journal from Hermione’s desk before practically running to the ingredients store room at the back of the class. He only just managed to lunge inside, casting a wandless silencing spell before he ripped open the buttons of his trousers and came, spectacularly. Streams of his pearlescent release sprayed over the rows of polished glassware as he cried out with a mixture of guttural anguish and forbidden pleasure.


	5. Chapter 5

Breathing heavily, he cast a quick scourgify spell over the spattered shelves, removing all evidence of what she had done to him. His hands were shaking. Realising that he was in no state to return to the classroom, he made the hasty decision to dismiss the students mid-lesson. Opening the storeroom door only wide enough for his voice to carry, he ordered them all to pack up and leave. The students exchanged bewildered glances. This was bizarre even for Professor Snape. Gradually, they cleaned up their cauldrons, packed their bags and exited. He didn’t dare emerge until the last one was gone, then quickly locked and warded the classroom door and strode into his chambers. Throwing a handful of floo powder into the fire, he informed Headmistress McGonagall that he was cancelling the rest of the day’s lessons due to ill health. Then, lowering himself into one of the armchairs in his living area, he opened Hermione’s journal.

Page after page was covered in her neat flowing script. There was research data, graphs from various experiments, and pages of ingredients and recipes.

But it was only when he flipped through to the final page that everything fell into place.

‘Extracorporeal Projection’. He traced a finger across the letters, frowning deeply. She had somehow managed to create a potion that allowed the imbiber to project themselves outside of their body. Not only that, the projection was robust enough to interact with a target. Scanning down the ingredients and instructions, he was struck by the complexity of the potion and the thought processes that must have led her to realise its potential. He pored over the words and her conclusions. He was still furious but the emotion was hedged with a feeling that was almost entirely unfamiliar to him, admiration. Severus Snape had created only two novel potions in his entire life and neither came close to the powerful potential of this one. He was witnessing the inner workings of a mind that was at least on par with his own. It was not something he was used to experiencing and it was uncomfortable to say the least. Closing his eyes, he rubbed his temples, trying to alleviate the pounding headache that had arrived with the quickening and not abated, even with his violent release.

He was at the mercy of this girl in too many ways. She had his measure and she was fully aware of it. She had made enough potion to fill multiple vials and who knew when she might choose to inflict it upon him again. There was only one course of action. It would require some adaptation of the current recipe to increase its potency by two or maybe three-fold but he was confident it should work. Snapping the journal shut, he clenched the muscles in his jaw. When he’d finished with her, she would sorely regret her foolishness in taunting the most venomous of snakes.

***

Hermione had spent the rest of the day trying to suppress the smug smile that threatened to reveal itself every time she thought about her potions lesson. The entire thing had unfolded better than she could have hoped for and the fact that Snape had cancelled all of his remaining lessons told her that she had dealt him a severe blow in more ways than one. She was not normally a vengeful person but Snape’s unparalleled arrogance made his undoing today oh so sweet. She practically floated into her bedroom, changing into a thin satin camisole before flopping onto her bed.

She couldn’t deny it, it had also made her feel extremely horny and she’d been looking forward to pleasuring herself whilst replaying the entire scenario in minute detail. Watching Snape convulsing under her ministrations had felt incredibly powerful and she could only imagine what had happened when he escaped into the store room. She had felt it in her hands, his cock spasming over and over again and knew that she had kept sucking the head beyond the point of comfort. She needed to make him aware of what it felt like to have his body betray him. He had done it enough times to her.

As she smiled into the darkness, remembering his face, mouth agape with shock and lust, his knuckles white with the strain of clutching the desk, she felt one nipple tingle and tighten. This was going to be good, her body was responding even before she had started touching it. She sighed with pleasure as she felt the other nipple do the same. The soft fabric of the camisole must be rubbing against them. She knew it had been a good purchase. Suddenly the tickle on her first nipple was replaced by a sharp pressure as if it had been gently pinched. Eyes flying open, her abdomen clenched as a thought struck her. He had her journal. She thought he had confiscated it so that she couldn’t make the potion again. She never thought he would . . .

Oh Gods!

That same warm wet mouth that had sucked her finger the previous evening closed over her nipple. Throwing her head back into her pillow, she groaned into the darkness. She could feel his soft tongue swirling around the hardened bud, followed by the distinct sensation of his teeth gently grazing the delicate flesh. When she thought of his crooked yellow teeth, she was filled with revulsion but it somehow added to the impact, as a warm wet gush leaked from between her legs. He was nibbling on her other nipple while plucking and rolling the first. To have so much sensation delivered without anyone physically present was overwhelming in the extreme and not knowing what he was going to do next left her panting with both fear and anticipation.

He was enjoying himself immensely. It hadn’t taken him long to work out how to control the projection once he’d imbibed the potion. It was as if he was floating along the Hogwarts corridors. His projected vision was slightly distorted and had a milky, translucent quality but he could easily distinguish everything that was before him. He discovered that he could change his focus to pass through solid objects and then reinstate a physicality to the projection to, for example, turn a door handle. Laying on his own bed, he now used the projection to slowly trail his tongue down Hermione’s smooth flat stomach. It felt like there was a very fine film between himself and her skin but the sensation wasn’t at all unpleasant. There was no sound, smell or taste, just vision and touch, but it was enough. He had a raging erection and stroked it gently as he continued down, plunging his tongue into her navel.

Hermione writhed on her bed, clutching fistfuls of her sheets, as she gasped with the shock of each new sensation. She felt his lips reach the fringe of her pubic hair and, seemingly unimpeded by the cotton of her knickers, continue their downward progression. Something smooth and rounded, it could only be his nose, was suddenly buried between her folds. The thought of that enormous proboscis being used to pleasure her gave her another jolt of erotic revulsion and her core started to ache.  But it was when she felt him suck the flesh of one entire labia into his mouth that she knew she was in trouble. The boldness of the move told her that he wasn’t some inexperienced novice. This man clearly had experience way beyond her own. She only just had time to feel around for her wand and cast a hasty silencing spell before he took it to a whole new level.

She felt his tongue glide between her swollen lips, as one long, elegant digit slithered up inside her. His tongue laved at her folds, working its way forward, as a second and then third digit joined the first and started slowly plunging in and out of her. She keened into the empty room, her eyelids fluttering as her eyes rolled back. He had reached her clitoris and was swirling his tongue around it sensuously. Sucking the hyper-sensitive nub into his mouth, he flicked the exposed tip rhythmically with his tongue. He sped up the movement of his pistoning fingers, curling them around to rub at the secret spot on her inner wall. How the hell was he so well versed in female anatomy? The thought struck her only fleetingly as her mind turned to mush.

He continued to rub, plunge and suck until he felt the tension building around his fingers. She was close. He increased the frenzied pace even further and her entire body started trembling, subtly at first and then building into uncontrolled, jerky convulsions. Her walls clenched and shuddered around him and he had primed his own cock to such an extent that the sensation of her coming was sufficient for his balls to clench in unison, ejecting squirt after squirt of warm seed over his bare chest and stomach.

Hermione screamed as she came. It was the most intense orgasm she had ever had. Even when it had finished, she felt the aftershocks spasming through her body for minutes afterward. As she slowly regained control of her breath, she realised that her entire body was damp with sweat and juices. She pulled the camisole over her head and threw it onto the floor, followed closely by her saturated knickers.

Collapsing back onto the bed, she sighed. “What the fuck . . .”

But she couldn’t finish. A warm, wet tongue had slithered into her ear, sending every nerve on edge, while both nipples were being rolled like marbles between his agile fingers.

“Oh Gods . . .”

He hadn’t finished with her.

As a Death Eater, Severus Snape had been well known as the one that female victims were given to before their fate was sealed. It amused Voldemort that he was capable of making their terrified bodies betray them, ripping orgasmic screams from their throats, even when they knew they were about to die. For Snape, who would often vomit after these episodes, the opportunity to give them one last pleasure before the inevitable pain, was some very small consolation for his role in the horror of the raids. He didn’t care to reflect upon this part of his life but it had left him with mastery in the art of sex that almost rivalled his skills as a potions master.

He continued rolling and squeezing her nipples as he slid down to her newly exposed honey pot. He desperately wished that he could taste her juices but would need to be satisfied with simply watching and feeling. Plunging his tongue deep into her vagina, he saw her lower body rise up off the bed as her legs stiffened uncontrollably. Even though he couldn’t hear her, the anguished contortion of her mouth told him that she was screaming the place down. He wondered if she had cast a silencing spell. It didn’t matter if she hadn’t. He would be pleased for her to have to face the embarrassing questions.

Sliding his hands down from her breasts, he placed one practised thumb on her clitoris and rubbed it as his tongue slid in and out. He then slid a finger in next to his tongue, plunging it inside a few times so that it was slick with a mixture of saliva and arousal before trailing it over her perineum to the tight ring of muscle between her cheeks. He felt her clench reflexively, perhaps trying to prevent his entry. But he fattened and curled his tongue, fucking her with it so completely that she eventually relaxed and he was able to push his finger, bit by bit, into her rectum. He slowly plunged it in and out, continuing to tongue-fuck her and thrum away on her clitoris.

Hermione thought she might actually die. The sensations were not like anything she had ever experienced. She had had her fair share of sexual encounters but this was almost transcendental in its intensity. She had lost all control of her bodily functions, her screams were hoarse and, as she felt the orgasm building inside her, she almost expected to explode. He relentlessly plundered every part of her most physically and emotionally sensitive regions until her whole body came apart in waves of convulsions. She experienced her first ejaculation as warm sticky fluid gushed all over the sheets beneath her and an unearthly wail tore from her throat.

Her mind was threatening to shut down. She dozed in and out of consciousness and wasn’t sure how long she had laid there before a, now familiar, tickle began. He was back.

Professor Snape was determined that she should be left in no doubt as to what would happen if she threatened him again and, with the stamina of ten ordinary men, he plundered her relentlessly throughout the night.

Hermione lost count of the number of orgasms that ripped through her body, long before she was finally allowed to fall into a sleep of utter exhaustion.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-con warning for this chapter folks.

Severus Snape felt uncharacteristically cheerful. He’d almost describe himself as ‘chipper’ if it wasn’t such a ridiculous Muggle word. He’d barely slept, but that wasn’t unusual. As a spy, he would sometimes go two or three days without sleep, and certainly this particular bout of insomnia was due to circumstances far more agreeable. For him at least. His jaw ached and his stiff fingers protested as he curled them around his morning coffee but, all in all, he felt more alive than he had in years. And, most importantly, he felt back in control.

He had been woken early by the discomfort of a throbbing erection. After the night’s activities, he was surprised that his exhausted member could manage more than a twitch. But the vividness of his dreams and the bushy-haired subject matter that had been heavily encoded in his brain over the preceding days, made for an electrifying combination that caused him to come all over himself again after just a few strokes. The thought of it now caused him to stir, and this was while sitting next to Professor Flitwick whose inane chatter was the equivalent of an impotence spell.

Snape took a sip of the bitter, scalding hot brew, inhaling deeply to maximise the hit. His lidded gaze returned to the spot where she always sat for breakfast. It was still empty. His initial response upon observing her absence was to congratulate himself for ravaging her to oblivion. Now, a needling doubt crept into his thoughts. He tried to get rid of it. Why should he care where she was? She had asked for it. Hadn’t she? She’d started it in fact. It was her potion.

Even he wasn’t convinced by the direction of his own argument. He sounded like a pre-schooler. Maybe he had taken it just a fraction too far. He could have stopped before the rimming. Or maybe even before the vibrating wand that he’d transfigured to the size of a salami and managed to project deep into her person. He sat, contemplating whether the quickening had taken hold more than he cared to admit. It often felt like he was possessed by it. Unable to fight it off.

And then she was there, walking with a noticeably stiff gait and wearing a concealer that barely masked the dark shadowing under her eyes. She didn’t look at him, chatting instead with the Weasley girl. Apart from her slightly dishevelled appearance, she was doing a pretty good job of looking normal. She withdrew her breakfast from the brown paper bag she’d carried in with her. It was unusual, but not unheard of, for some students to prefer their own meals to those provided by Hogwarts. Clearly she didn’t have much of an appetite, setting out a small tub of yoghurt, grapes and a banana on the table in front of her.

The Weasley girl, seated opposite, handed her another paper bag. She took out a handful of what appeared to be thick red ribbons. The entire hall had been decorated red and gold for yet another celebration. Snape couldn’t remember which one this was - the anniversary of the first hat to be made out of a dragon’s scrotum or something. Why they persisted with celebrating every event, award, birthday, time that Neville Longbottom didn’t fuck up and Madam Hooch’s passage into menopause was beyond him. He imagined that the feeble ribbons were just another part of her duty as Head Girl - to be seen to be engaged.

As he watched, she took a ribbon, bent down and tied it to the front leg of her chair. Then she took a second and tied it to the opposite leg. She wasn’t doing a very good job. It looked nothing like the other decorations. The third ribbon she threaded through the back rungs of the chair. That looked even worse, unless she was planning on tying it into a bow. He was so busy sneering at her lack of creative flair that he didn’t react until it was too late. Both arms were yanked backwards and cinched behind him with a painfully tight bind. He tried to stand but neither of his legs would budge. He hastily muttered a wandless releasing spell but nothing happened. It was only when he looked up and she returned his gaze, fully and defiantly, that it finally dawned upon him. They weren’t decorations, they were those fucking bondage ties sold in the Weasley twins’ store. He should have caught on earlier, he’d confiscated enough from students (and staff) experimenting in the alcoves around the school. Even if he could reach the wand in his pocket, he would have trouble undoing them. His large shoulder muscles started to seize up with the strain. Fuck!

The bondage ribbon projection worked better than she had expected. He was trussed up at the head table like a greasy black-haired turkey, while the actual physical ties remained secured to her own chair. The variety of objects he had used on her the night before, told Hermione that the Extracorporeal projection potion could project more than one’s own body. While her understanding of the potion’s potential was only in its infancy, already Hermione could see uses that would transform many aspects of Wizarding life. When she finished at Hogwarts, she would publish an article about it in one of the Wizarding world’s scientific journals. Although they were obviously rather taken with magic, Wizards were not averse to understanding and appreciating scientific principles. But that would be in the distant future. Far away from here, and far away from this man.

When she’d told Ginny what Snape had done to her, they had concocted a plan and Ginny had managed to get hold of some of her brothers’ bondage ribbons to enact it. Now Snape was looking down at her from the head table. Not with his usual arrogance and derision but with something very different for Snape - fear. Hermione stared at him a few moments longer, wanting to imprint that image on her brain. Snape scared. Snape knowing that he had royally fucked up.

Despite the fact that she was tender this morning, he hadn’t actually hurt her. Not physically anyway. But it was his insatiable drive to dominate and control that had left her feeling utterly powerless and thoroughly demeaned. She might have experienced half a dozen of the most intense orgasms of her life but they were given up unwillingly, so she would thank him for nothing. And if he thought his actions would cause her to capitulate, to throw up her hands in surrender, he didn’t know her very well. At least not this Hermione. Hermione the Survivor.

She dragged her eyes away from Snape and looked across the table at Ginny, who wore a small, secretive smile. She had been absolutely furious when Hermione had told her of what had happened. She’d wanted him castrated and said she’d happily do it - using her teeth. But Hermione knew Snape’s Achilles heel. He was obviously sexually frustrated. Although, he’d also clearly had plenty of sex in his life judging by his extreme and audacious antics. But it was loss of control and humiliation that caused him the deepest angst. Hermione had learnt that, in life, it was important to face your fears, and she was ready, now, to help him learn this most valuable of lessons.  

Glancing around, she was pleased to note that nothing that had happened so far had drawn so much as a raised eyebrow from the other students and staff, who continued to devour their breakfasts noisily. Snape simply appeared to be sitting with his usual erect posture, although a more observant eye would have noticed the flexion in his jawline, the fine sheen of sweat that had appeared on his pale skin and the stray lock of hair that had fallen across his face.    

“It’s showtime,” Hermione breathed to Ginny. Then she swivelled in her chair so that Snape had a perfect view. Slowly, she reached out and trailed her index finger along the skin of the banana on the table. Snape’s head jerked back and, although she couldn’t hear him over the noise in the great hall, she could tell he was hissing between his clenched teeth. Hermione smirked, he revelled in manipulation, and yet was so hyper-sensitive, it was ironic. Maybe that was why he was so . . . no she wouldn’t start making excuses for him now. Not after what he had done to her.

She suddenly snatched up the banana and rubbed her small hand up and down its length, tightening her grip with each stroke. His eyes fluttered closed and his chest heaved. The spasmodic bobbing of his Adam’s apple told her that he was desperately trying to remain quiet.

“Good Luck,” she thought as she started to peel the banana.

He felt her tugging on his foreskin and then her mouth closed over the throbbing head of his erection. Fuck! His eyes sprang open to find hers locked on him, as she slowly drew the banana in and out of her mouth, sucking on the soft flesh. He tried to clear his head, to take back control. He blinked a few times and then glared at her, slowly turning his head from side to side. Trying to intimidate her. He managed to hold his gaze until he saw her pink tongue emerge and swirl around and around the slick fruit. His head fell back, defeated. He should have known she wouldn’t fall for the power play.

Plenty of women had sucked his cock before. Many hadn’t managed to make him come even after bobbing away for an eternity. And yet this little minx had him leaping out of his skin at the slightest touch. It was infuriating. He swallowed and thought of anything he could to diminish the sensation – Filch masturbating, Flitwick in a threesome, Madame Hooch riding out an orgasm on the tentacles of the Giant Squid – but it didn’t work, the tension continued to build inside him.

Ginny sat, slack-jawed, watching the scene play out between her best friend and Professor Snape. It was the most erotic thing she had ever seen and she felt her pale cheeks flushing when she realised just how aroused it was making her. Hermione, meanwhile, had not taken her eyes from Snape, revelling in the power she wielded over him. It was time to take it to the next level.

Setting the banana down, she picked up the small bunch of grapes, plump and purple, and lowered them towards her mouth. When the closest one brushed against her lips, she licked it and Snape responded as though he’d received an electric shock, convulsing at the sensation of her tongue sliding up his balls. He slumped forward, breathing heavily, further locks of dark hair hung in his face and his wild eyes appeared to be pleading with her.

“No mercy,” she thought, remembering his ruthless pillaging only hours before.

She watched him closely as she slowly sucked the grape into the moist cavern of her mouth. He released a strangled moan and his face contorted with anguish, as he felt one entire testicle being engulfed in her soft warmth. Her tongue slid around the twitching nugget and he grimaced into his lap. The straining mound in his trousers was soaked with precum and threatening to either break free or break in half. When she took a second grape into her mouth it all became too much. He cried out, face flooding with red as he strained against his binds.

Students were staring at him, wondering what had happened to their, typically morose, Professor. His spasmodic writhing and unearthly cries were those of a man possessed.

“Are you alright old chap,” Flitwick leant toward him, a hand on his arm.

“Fuck off!!” His mind screamed but he managed a feeble smile. “I think it might have been something I ate. I’ll be fine.”

He needed to pull himself together. He was a master of Occlumency for fuck’s sake. He had practised discipline for decades and he needed to call upon it now before . . . before . . . Oh Merlin’s Balls!

His mouth dropped open and his eyes bulged as Hermione dipped a finger into her tub of yoghurt. She continued to push it in and out of the creamy filling as Snape sat, paralyzed, feeling the sensation of her finger plunging in and out of his rectum. The feeling was so visceral that he shuddered, as if he were about to be sick.

“I think he’s had enough.” Ginny’s hand was on Hermione’s arm, halting the finger that was dipping rhythmically into the tub. Hermione looked at her in surprise, as if only just remembering she was there. She had been so entranced by what she was doing, it felt like she and Snape were the only two in the hall. Breathing heavily, Ginny gave a small shake of her head. Hermione returned her gaze to Snape who looked broken, hanging forward on his binds, sweaty strands of hair clinging to his ashen face.

Hermione frowned as she turned back to her.

“He doesn’t understand tenderness. Or kindness. Or mercy. He only understands control and power. That’s why I need to finish this. Finish him.”

Ginny sat back, dumbfounded by this side of Hermione she had never seen. Her best friend had always been Gryffindor through and through – kind, generous, caring, loyal, brave. But this? This was Slytherinesque. She could only watch as Hermione set her jaw to conquer the final frontier.  

Snape felt a moment of reprise. Her finger was still inside him but no longer moving. He dearly hoped, having made her point, she was ready to release him, let him take his leave of this forsaken place. But when he looked up, her eyes told a whole different story, flashing with deep-seated anger and hurt. With painstakingly controlled movements, she sucked the two grapes back into her mouth and picked up what was left of the banana, pushing it in with the others and rolling them around together with her tongue. Then she began pumping two fingers into the contents of the tub, all the time staring at him, into him.

He came with a guttural cry, knees smashing against the table and eyes rolling back in his head. All hell broke loose as people rushed from all directions. “He’s having a seizure!” cried Professor McGonagall. "Call Poppy down immediately!"

As figures swam past his hooded vision, he saw Hermione hurl the tub of yoghurt down onto the table, before tearing the ribbons from the chair and storming out of the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Acknowledgement to CryingCinderella for the bondage ribbons from one of my favourite fics – Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-con warning for this chapter folks. Things do improve :)

“Unhand me woman!” Snape jerked his arm out of Poppy Pomfrey’s firm grasp. She had been trying to take his pulse, but he was so agitated that he wouldn’t stand still.

“Professor, you are clearly unwell.” She wore a well-practised frown that was usually sufficient to make students and staff, alike, do as they were told. “I insist that you sit down right now so that I might examine you.”

“I am not unwell,” he ground out through gritted teeth, brushing her arm away as she tried to grab him again. “It was merely a fit of boredom. Brought on by one of Flitwick’s tedious stories.”

He continued pacing erratically to and fro, his dark form silhouetted against the infirmary window.

“Professor,” Madam Pomfrey said with forced patience. “I have been tending patients for nearly as many years as you’ve been alive, and I consider myself an exceptional judge of people’s physical, mental and emotional state.”

Snape’s eyes roved wildly around the room. He was struggling to maintain focus. He took a few deep breaths before mustering up one of his trademark sneers. “Some might be interested in discussing your professional credentials but I’m a busy man, so if you will stand aside. I will take my leave of you.”

He squared up to her and they looked very much like they were about to engage in a wrestling match.

“Professor. Just look at you,” she implored him. “Your eyes are bloodshot, your skin is deathly pale and your hair is . . . “

“Greasy. Yes I know. I’ve heard it before,” he snapped. “Now stand aside.”

“No.” Madam Pomfrey took a step toward him, suddenly feeling a maternal sadness for the man who had been bullied about his physical appearance since he’d arrived at Hogwart’s as a child, and probably even before. “That’s not what I was about to say.”

Snape felt his breath shortening and knew that he couldn’t maintain control much longer. He needed to get away before he did something he regretted.

“Just . . . you need to let me go,” he almost pleaded, running his hand distractedly through his lank locks.

“I can’t. Not in this state,” she said, gently placing a hand on his arm.

The unwanted affection burned him like a hot iron. Anger welled in his chest, as he was flooded with memories of the unbidden sensations he had been subjected to in the great hall. Just like the humiliation he had endured at the hands of that bastard James Potter and the systematic torture inflicted by Voldemort and the Death Eaters. It was happening all over again. He couldn’t separate one event from another. Everything was twisted together in one giant ball of shame and rage and it was threatening to engulf him.

He turned his arm and caught Madam Pomfrey by the wrist, bending it at an uncomfortable angle. Her eyes filled with pain and fear.

“You will let me go now. And you will never . . . touch . . . me . . . again.”

The dark timbre of his voice set her thin lips trembling, but it was what she saw crackling deep in his eyes that wrenched a strangled gasp from her throat. Coursing through their depths were sinuous blue sparks, leaping and flashing with dark energy. She had only seen it once before, many years ago. But it was unmistakable. The Galvanismus curse. How long had he had it? How far had it progressed? At best, he would feel tense, his nerves constantly on edge, at worst he would be totally possessed by it. And with Snape’s history of trauma, she was surprised that he hadn’t been completely overwhelmed. This man couldn’t be allowed near the students. Nor anyone else for that matter. But the thought came too late as he suddenly threw her hand aside and, with a flourish of black robes, was gone.

***

With a ferocity of purpose, Snape strode down the Hogwarts corridors, scattering terrified students in all directions. He was in full and magnificent flight, robes billowing in his wake like a darkly dangerous incubus. He desperately needed to get to his chambers. To safely isolate himself while he still retained any semblance of control. Nerves jangling and senses painfully acute, he knew he didn’t have long. The girl, he could hardly call her Miss Granger, had created this perfect storm. Acutely threatened, the quickening and turned inward and built within him to extreme proportions. Merlin help anyone who stood in his way. He crashed through another door and stopped dead. Before him, hugging a stack of text books to her chest, was the very witch responsible for this intolerable torture.

If her hands hadn’t been occupied with the spoils of her latest trip to the library, she might have reached her wand in time. As it was, his lightning-quick movements had her lifted and thrown bodily into a shadowy alcove before she had time to even draw breath. Books flying, she landed on her hands and knees while he flicked spells from his wand. Concealment. Silence. Shield Ward. He clearly had no intention of them being seen, heard, nor found. This was going to be bad.

As she drew in shuddering breaths, trying to think of something, anything that might give her a chance of escaping, he approached with slow, deliberate steps. Although the shadows concealed most of his face, she could see a strange blue light sparking in his eyes.

“Professor . . . I,” she rasped, fear strangling her voice. “I really didn’t want to do that to you.”

She wished he would shout and scream and snort and spit with rage. Instead, he remained deathly quiet.

“I . . . wanted to stop. To show you mercy. But . . . I . . . I couldn’t. I needed to show you. To show you what it was like.”

“What it was like?” His deep voice was soft, almost sensuous. It didn’t fit with the intense rigidity of his body.

She choked back a sob. She was genuinely afraid.

“What it was like . . . to be dominated. Controlled. Demeaned. Dehumanised.” The words came out in breathy bursts.

“And of course I would know nothing of that,” he replied in the same silky tone. “Never would I have experienced such things.”

Hermione’s chest ached, she was struggling to breathe.

“I’m so glad you were the one to teach me this incredibly . . . valuable . . . lesson.” His words dripped with sarcasm.

Then he launched at her. “Expelliarmus!”

A bolt from his wand blasted hers to the far corner of the alcove. He had seen her hand creeping into her pocket and now she was totally and utterly defenceless.

He tilted his head to one side as if studying a creature of interest.

“You don’t know the meaning of such words. Yet. But you will.”

Reaching down, he grabbed her roughly by the shirt collar and yanked her to her feet. As his menacing form loomed over her, she retreated in short, stuttering steps, until her back hit the rough bricks of the alcove wall. He stepped in closer and the air was, again, redolent with his earthy scent. The heat radiating from him was in stark contrast to the bone-chilling cold seeping into her back, and when he reached out and placed a thumb against the cleft just above her collar bone, her breath caught in her throat. With a downward thrust of his arm, he tore open her shirt, leaving her torso exposed and her breasts rising and falling under his electric gaze.

“You have always been an insufferable know-it-all.” His hand snaked through the gap in the torn cloth and stroked her abdomen. It twitched, uncontrollably. “And you never knew when to leave enough alone.”

His fingertips glided up the underside of her ribcage to where the flimsy cloth of her cotton bra curved under her breast. Her pulse accelerated in anticipation of his next move. He leant in even closer and she was mesmerised by the unearthly blue flame that continued to dance in his eyes. When his words came, they were as cold as ice.

“Now it’s time for me to teach you a lesson. You were always so desperate to learn. So this should be enjoyable for both of us.”

She looked up at him with a mixture of fear and despair. She could hardly believe that this was her life. It was so far from what she had wanted for herself. From what she had worked so hard for.

“Too late for such recriminations Miss Granger,” his rich voice slithered into her core. “Nothing really works out the way we wish. So we must take what we can. When we can.”

She trembled as his fingers continued their upward journey, sliding over the cotton in a light caress that was both stimulating and nauseating. He traced a lazy circle with one finger around her nipple, closer and closer but never quite touching it. He would be able to feel her tremulous heartbeat through his fingertip, the air being squeezed in and out of her lungs. To have him so perilously close to her life force was terrifying, as if, with one small tap, he could snuff her out like a candle. The thought of how vulnerable she was sent her system into over-drive and her lips parted as she sought solace in deep lungfuls of life-affirming air.

The whole time his eyes hadn’t left hers but now, with her breasts heaving erratically, he lowered his head. He trailed his nose down the side of her neck, over the galloping pulse at her throat and down toward his hand that was resting with a thumb and forefinger on either side of her nipple. He gently squeezed the flesh to protract the bud before closing his warm mouth over it. Her breath grew raspy as he sucked on the cotton clad nub, his moist tongue laving over it, coaxing it into a hard peak. She bit her lip hard, determined that, despite the quaking of her traitorous body, she would offer no sound in response to what he was doing to her.

But her resolve was quickly broken as he grabbed the neckline of her bra with both hands and tore it through the middle, throwing the tattered remains aside to reveal her pert, shapely breasts. Any hope she may have been harbouring that he would be gentle with her was dispelled in that moment.

His hands slid under her skirt, skating up the side of each leg before hooking onto her knickers. In one movement he tore them off, the elastic cutting painfully into her skin before giving way.

“Did it turn you on to make me come?” he whispered in her ear. “To pump my cock until I ejaculated?”

His words made her shiver as she remembered just how aroused she had been. Despite her intense shame, she could feel the ache in her core.

“If your mouth won’t give me the answers, then I shall seek them elsewhere.”

His hand reached under her skirt and he delved two fingers between her nether lips, sliding them along the groove directly into her opening. She stiffened and cried out with the speed and depth of his entry. He pumped them rhythmically in and out, his face only millimetres from hers, his hot breath shooting into her open mouth with each penetration. Then he brought his fingers, slick and sticky with her juices up to his mouth which was so close to hers that she could almost taste her own arousal, as its muskiness filled her nose. Inserting both fingers between his thin lips, he sucked on them, his eyes fluttering closed as if shutting down his other senses to focus all his attention on her taste.

“There are two episodes of arousal here. One sweet and one sour. One recent and one past. You are a horny little slut aren’t you?” He trailed his sticky fingers down her cheek. “You pretend to be so righteous. Holier than thou. An innocent little swat with a mind only for the books. And yet you make a potion. Probably the most original, brilliant, potion in the last hundred years. With astounding potential. And what do you do with it? You give me a fucking blow job! You suck me off. What does that say about you?”

Hermione didn’t answer. She couldn’t even if she wanted to. It was all true.

“I think you’ve wanted me for a long time. Craved me. Craved what I could do to you. Well now you’re going to find out.”

He turned her around and pushed her roughly against the wall, bricks grazing against her bare breasts.

“You’re going to have to make a lot more room for me than that,” he said, kicking her feet wide apart with the toe of his boot.

Somehow she knew he wasn’t bragging. Moments later she felt something warm and smooth prodding insistently at her opening then, without warning, he slammed up into her. She screamed with the shock and size of him. He was stretching her to breaking point, her entrance stinging with the sheer girth of his member. He pulled out and then drove into her again, punching into her cervix and forcing her up onto her toes. She cried out again, her nipples grinding against the wall.

He leaned back as he drew his cock out again, admiring its rock-hard firmness and the way it shone like polished alabaster. He rammed it home again, revelling in the tight heat of her cunt. He had fucked a lot of people, men and women, willing and unwilling, but he couldn’t remember one that felt so satisfying. The quickening was subsiding a little with each thrust. He still felt powerless to oppose it, but it was no longer crushing him with the same intensity.

“It’s bigger than you imagined isn’t it?” he breathed in her ear.

She closed her eyes, trying to block him out.

“I can feel the walls of your pussy squeezing,” he groaned as he tried to drag himself out and found resistance, she was so tight. “I don’t think your cunt has had as much action as you pretended. At least not with a cock of any substance.”

He was no longer slamming into her but filling her in long fluid strokes. Her breathing was ragged as she braced her hands against the wall.

“Now I’d like to feel you clamp me inside your walls. I want to feel you as tight as you can get. And then I want to feel your body milking me, sucking at my seed, greedily drawing it into you.”

Hermione shook her head. The insinuation that she wanted anything but to be on the other side of the planet from him was so infuriating that her fear subsided for just a moment.

He chuckled darkly in her ear. “We’ll see who gets their way.”

He reached around to her breast and started to roll the nipple between his dextrous fingers, then slipped his other hand down and under her skirt. He quickly found the nub of her clitoris and began rubbing it in time with his deep thrusts. Tilting his pelvis, he created a devilish angle that rubbed his cock down the front wall of her vagina, every ridge and bump hitting her G spot.

Hermione gasped, throwing her head back.

“That’s right. Grab onto my cock like you don’t want to let it go.” His last words were grunted out as he could feel the tension growing in his balls. Her slick heat, tightening with each stroke was threatening to send him over the edge. But he couldn’t. He had other plans.

“Now come for me you little slut,” he ground out.

Sweat was trickling down his face as he increased the speed and ferocity of his movements. He pinched her nipples while slamming his cock into her as far as it would go. His balls slapped against her with each thrust.

An unearthly wail came from deep within Hermione’s throat as she could feel herself giving in to his wishes. Her legs started to quake and the tension surged inside her pussy, building to an unbearable crescendo before her walls started pulsing and shuddering. Her entire body was convulsing as gushes of warm juice spurted all over his pistoning cock. She screamed as she rode out her orgasm, his fingers still working on her nipples and clitoris to sustain the fluttering contractions around him.

He was so close to coming himself but at the last moment he pulled out, dragged her away from the wall and pushed her to her knees. Grabbing her roughly by the hair, he tilted her head back, causing her mouth to fall open in pain.

“And this is for what you did to me, you bitch.”

He grasped his sticky cock in his fist and pumped it into her face. After only a couple of jerks, he ejaculated, streams of warm come shot across her face, into her hair and eyes. He directed it into her open mouth, watching it hit the back of her throat, causing her to swallow. He kept milking his pulsating member until the last sticky drops coated her lips. It wasn’t only satisfying to defile something so beautiful. Knowing the intelligence behind that come-slicked brow made it even more so.

He released her hair with a careless flick of his hand, admiring his handiwork. She didn’t move. Her eyes were closed.

There was a long silence and suddenly he blinked, frowning. He looked about. Not quite sure of his surroundings. What had happened? He was shocked to see someone, dishevelled and covered in . . . Oh Gods! What had he done?


	8. Chapter 8

Three sourgify spells later, she could still smell the slick essence of his sweat on her skin and taste his bitter sweet ejaculate in her mouth. She wasn’t going to be able to do any more about it until she reached the sanctuary of her bedroom, and it was this singular focus that kept her mind from collapsing completely. She partially tamed her matted locks with a disentanglement spell and stemmed the scarlet trickle from her scraped knees with a hastily cast Tergeo. The battered text books somehow concerned her more—innocent bystanders in the whole sordid incident. She carefully retrieved them from the dusty floor of the alcove, squeezing them to her chest like a protective mother. Gulping down deep, steadying breaths, she approached the entrance to the alcove.

Harry’s invisibility cloak would have been a blessing in that moment but he was most likely in Arithmancy class, where she should have been. Burying her chin in the remains of her tattered shirt front, and shielding herself with the books, she focused intently on the ground as she strode as quickly as her aching body would allow, back to the Gryffindor common room. There were groups of younger students spotted about the room when she entered but, thankfully, their attention was directed elsewhere, heads bobbing together in excited conversation. Snippets reached her as she headed for the stairwell.

“Apparently he’s warded the door to his chambers. No one can get in . . .”

“McGonagall called for Hagrid. Maybe they need to break the door down . . . “

“Did you see him at breakfast? Had a fit or something . . .”

“Hope the greasy git’s on the way out. He should never have come back . . . “

Hermione’s breath was having trouble squeezing past the growing lump in her throat. She hastened to a trot, a desperate fist trying to stifle her frantic gasps as she started up the stairs. Her mind felt like it had sprung a leak, her thoughts becoming more and more difficult to collect. How did they know? Had he confessed? What had he told them? Why had he warded his door? She ran up the stairs as quickly as she could manage, ignoring the uncomfortable breeze around her bare nether regions and the insistent tender reminder in her core, nagging like a rotten tooth. Lunging at her door, breathless, like a marathon runner finally crossing the finish line, she stopped short as she saw Ginny jump up from her bed and storm towards her.

“Where have you been?” she cried.

Drawing in ragged breaths, Hermione shook her head, willing her not to approach.

“I’ve been trying to find you ever since breakfast. I need to talk to you. Listen Mione, I’m not sure what’s going on between you and Snape but . . . “

“You need to leave,” Hermione’s gasped, as she held up a shaking hand.

“What?” Ginny stopped in front of her, a puzzled frown creasing her brow.

Hermione clutched the books even tighter. They were digging painfully into her bruised flesh.

“Just leave Ginny.” Hermione’s voice had taken on a note of panic.

“Mione, what happened?” Ginny’s eyes finally fixed on her, taking in her dishevelled hair, the bloody scrapes on her knees and the scraps of tattered material that used to be her shirt.

Hermione closed her eyes but didn’t respond.

“Mione . . . what happened,” she repeated, closing the distance between them.

Hermione pulled away, her back slamming against the door. Instantly, memories of the alcove flooded back.

“Get out!!” she screamed, her voice cracking with the strain.

Ginny stopped abruptly, face flooding red with anger and concern.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low. “He got you back didn’t he?”

Hermione was breathing heavily, the grim line of her mouth failing to quell the quiver that had captured her lips.

Ginny shook her head, as the grave realisation settled like a stone in her chest.

Silent tears trailed down Hermione’s cheeks, sliding down her neck and under her collar. Ginny’s eyes welled as her heart broke for her friend.

“Mione. What do you need?”

Hermione gave an anguished sob as she drew breath. She wanted time. Time to process. Time to consider. Time to scourgify herself to within an inch of her life.

“I need to be alone,” she whispered.

Ginny looked crestfallen but she understood. She considered Hermione for a long moment before giving a small nod. She desperately wanted to hug her but knew she couldn’t be touched.

“I’m not going to classes today,” she murmured. “I’ll be in my room when you need me.”

Hermione slowly stepped away from the door, allowing her friend to quietly leave.

Despite her love for the treasured books, she now let them slip from her arms and land in a tangle of pages on the stone floor. She only just managed the few unsteady steps to her bed, before collapsing onto it with a gut-wrenching wail.

Curled in a ball, fistfuls of blankets clutched to her chest, Hermione cried in great heaving sobs. She cried for her immeasurable sense of loss. The war had taken so much from her—her sense of trust, feelings of security, dear friends and loved ones, but also what she had liked most about herself—her kindness, humanity, even her ability to love. For their own safety, she had relieved her parents of their memories of her. Their fiercely devoted daughter. She had set them free, as if she were some malevolent weight around their necks, threatening to drown them. She hated herself for it, even though she knew it was the right thing to do.

She cried for her loyal and loving friends, especially Harry, Ron and Ginny. She hadn’t been a great friend since the war had ended. She’d been so critical of everything, determined that if she could reach some level of perfection, everything would be better. Of course it never was. The harder she worked, the more she expected, the less happy she became. She was suddenly struck by the realisation that her current predicament no longer felt like some anomaly. It was as if she had been building up to this all along, spiralling closer and closer, willing some destructive element to tear her apart. To take away the pain once and for all.

And suddenly she was crying for Severus Snape. The man she knew to be brave and selfless to a fault, to have sacrificed himself willingly to save the wizarding world—to have almost died. It had been so easy to forget this fact in the daily grind of classes, under the constant barrage of insults. She knew the trauma of his life and yet had forgiven him nothing.

But what he did to her was wrong! Her harried mind fought back. It was unforgiveable. He had raped her! Her bloody knees and shredded clothing could attest to the violent destructiveness of the man. He had been domineering and relentless, had violated her in so many ways on this very bed only half a day before. Had it really been only a matter of hours? She screwed her eyes shut, trying to think. It was hard to account for the slippage of time, it felt like so long ago.

She gave a great hiccoughing sigh, her body finally falling still on the mess of damp sheets. Bone weary, she knew she didn’t have the mental clarity or emotional fortitude to fully process what had happened. The woolly thoughts that swam through her mind and fleeting memories that seemed to change as she watched them, made her question whether she was, in fact, losing her sanity. Simply giving in to the forces that were threatening to engulf her, slipping away into an insensate oblivion, seemed like the most alluring of options in that moment. Her mind had always been both a blessing and a curse, it tormented her, tirelessly turning over like a possessed washing-machine. If only she could be free of it for just a short while . . .

She suddenly sat up, her mind snapping her back into reality. She rubbed her swollen face with her hands. Snape was still on the loose. Who knew what sort of danger he posed to others? How much time had she already lost? She needed to tell someone what had happened as soon as possible. But who? The only person with the authority and power to oppose him was Professor McGonagall. No one had forgotten how the fiercely protective woman had ousted Snape after he’d killed Dumbledore. Her stern and proper demeanour belied an immensely powerful and determined witch. Hermione wouldn’t be surprised if Snape was still fearful of her. Yes, she would tell the Headmistress exactly what had happened. What he had done to her. She sat on the edge of the bed, pleased that she had managed to decide upon on a course of action.

Then her mind, that insufferable know-it-all mind kept churning through the scenario. Professor McGonagall would ask her why he had done it. What might have caused him to behave in such a way. And what would she say in response? That she had raped him. Twice. That’s exactly what she had done. Once in front of the entire school. The realisation hit her with the force of a bludger to the chest and her heart started to ache with the shame of it. Ginny had tried to stop her. Why hadn’t she seen what she was doing to him? She was so consumed with anger, loss and hurt—she had wanted to hurt him. The man who had endured more torture at the hands of Voldemort than any other. She wanted to hurt him. To show him what it felt like to be humiliated, debased. No wonder he had responded the way he did.

“Fuck!!” she screamed into the empty room, hugging herself around her stomach. Then she clamped her arms over her head and started rocking from side to side, groaning with the physicality of the emotional pain she both felt and had, inevitably, caused. Regardless of how she looked in that moment, Hermione knew that this wasn’t madness. It was the painful acceptance of a horrifying reality. She was not innocent. She was equally to blame. Then another image came to her. That of Snape standing over her in the alcove. Looking down on her as she finally opened her sticky eyes. He wore such a complex expression she hadn’t quite understood it at the time. A mixture of doubt, guilt and . . . fear. His long fingers had been stretched toward her, as if he was about to touch her, but then he’d turned away and, with a swish of his wand, disappeared. But it wasn’t just his expression that struck her, it was his eyes. They were still impossibly black but had cleared, the blue flame had gone.

 

* * *

Hermione ran to her dresser and pulled open the top drawer. There were three potions left. She tore the stopper off one and gulped down the cool silvery liquid. Only moments later she felt the projection leave her body. She used her mind to guide the translucent vision out of her room, down the stairwell and through the Gryffindor common room. She sped along corridors, moving through walls and opening doors until she reached the dungeons. If she had been there in person, she would have been prevented from entering by an unusually sombre looking Professor Sprout who was standing with her arms crossed, allowing no students through. Clearly, there was something serious going on.

Hermione directed the projection around Professor Sprout and along the shadowy dungeon corridors to the potions classroom where there was a second sentry standing guard. This time it was Filch, leering about for any sign of students. Hermione was tempted to poke him in the eye but she continued on, through the door to the classroom where four figures were standing in front of the entry to Professor Snape’s chambers. Despite her milky vision, she recognised the enormous and tiny forms of Hagrid and Professor Flitwick immediately then, as she approached, she identified Madam Pomfrey and, finally, Professor McGonagall. The Headmistress was frowning deeply as she spoke urgently to the door.

Were the rumours true? Had Professor Snape really warded himself into his chambers? Hermione approached, unsure of whether the projection would be allowed passage through the wards. She forged ahead and in moments had melted through to the other side of the door. She made a brief mental note to include this feature of the potion in her first publication. But then focused on what she was seeing.

She had never been in Professor Snape’s chambers before. Straight ahead was a fireplace with two stylish armchairs on either side and an ornate wooden mantelpiece arching over the top. Leaning against the mantelpiece was the tall, lean form of Professor Snape. His stance was casual and he held a glass loosely in his fingers. Moving closer, she noticed an almost empty bottle of Firewhisky on the mantel near his elbow. Perhaps he was celebrating? Hermione circled around him until she could see his face. His lids were heavy, his eyes bloodshot, but this time she knew the flames in his black orbs were simply a reflection from the fire into which he was staring, unblinkingly.

Next to the Firewhisky bottle was his beloved hourglass. The students despised the device which caused so much angst in the classroom. Now it was melting down, only minutes left. What was he timing? How long it would take him to finish the bottle? When he would finally remove the wards? Then she noticed another small bottle, next to the hourglass, she had to glide up very close to read it. ‘Postleshade’

Hermione gasped, springing up from her bed. Postleshade, otherwise known as ‘Escape from Azkaban’. It was the most contraband and sought-after substance in the prison. The only essence capable of bringing relief to the tortured soul. It was the strongest poison known to the Wizarding world. Liquid death. Postleshade would allow a permanent escape and there was absolutely no way to counter it. Snape reached out for the bottle of Firewhisky, pouring the remaining contents into his glass. Despite having clearly drunk the whole bottle, his hand barely wavered. He was just so strong, Hermione thought. Those hands that had fought, bled, brewed and caressed. And, in a minute’s time, would be permanently stilled. An anguished sob tore from her at the realisation of what he intended to do. And the knowledge that she was, at least in part, responsible.

He drained the glass in one gulp and set it gently on the mantelpiece. His body was filled with the warm heat from both the liquor and the fire. It was pleasant. He felt a twinge of sadness that this would be the last he would feel of such sensations. Of any sensations, pleasant or otherwise, for that matter. He had had some pleasant sensations. Particularly over the past few days. More than he had had for a very long time. Perhaps in his entire life time. But he had done other things that made it impossible to wish for more. He watched the last grains of golden sand trickle through the hourglass. He saw no need to hurry it along this time. He had an eternity of nothing after this and so a few more moments of something were worth savouring. And then it was finished.

He could have written a letter but he didn’t really care to explain himself to those waiting impatiently outside his door. There was only one person he wanted to understand him. But that was now out of the question. There was nothing even he, despite his undeniable eloquence, could say to justify what he had done. To be honest, he couldn’t understand it himself. Taking a deep breath, he reached for the small bottle.

Just before his fingertips reached it, the bottle suddenly toppled off the mantelpiece, exploding into the fire. Before he could react, the hourglass did the same, smashing down onto the bricks around the hearth and scattering sand at his feet. He could scarcely believe his eyes when the sand grains started to move. They were being pushed around by an unseen force. Then letters started to appear, furrows dug through the grains. His face contorted as he read each letter in turn.

“I FORGIVE YOU”

Drawing his arms to his chest as if the pain there was just too great he closed his eyes, his head falling back. He gave a child-like wail and collapsed to the ground.


	9. Chapter 9

Hermione slept. After she had watched Snape collapse, like a marionette with its strings cut, she had severed the extracorporeal projection and fallen into a deep slumber. She slept through the night and into the next day, Ginny checking on her every two hours. She knew that her friend had been visited by harrowing dreams since the war, causing her to flail about and throw off her covers, and so wanted to ensure that she kept warm. When she entered in the late afternoon with a bag of food and cup of water, Ginny found Hermione shaking her head, her brow glistening with sweat, mumbling breathlessly.

“Don’t do it . . . Don’t do it.”

Sitting on the side of her bed, Ginny brushed Hermione’s tussled hair away from her face and, after a few gentle strokes, the older girl fell silent.

“Mione?” she whispered. Hermione didn’t respond.

Ginny gently shook her shoulder. It was more important that she ate than slept at this point, having gone without food and water for days.

“Mione!” she shook her more urgently and Hermione finally sat up with a gasp, her eyes darting wildly around the room.

Ginny smiled warmly at her. “Hey sleepy head. You’ve been out for over a day. And I really don’t think you need any more beauty sleep.”

Hermione closed her eyes and flopped back onto her pillow, a small smile on her lips.

“I think I might have been tired,” she rasped, her throat bone dry. Ginny helped her sit up and handed her the water and paper bag containing a chicken sandwich, apple and a muffin. Hermione drained the cup, then realised she was starving, stuffing the sandwich in with very little consideration for manners or crumbs. It was only when she came to unwrapping the muffin that she noticed the expression on Ginny’s face. She knew her well enough to guess that she wanted to tell her something, but was unsure of how to say it.

“Out with it Gin,” she said, fiddling with the plastic film. “I’m feeling much better now. About everything.”

Ginny still looked uncertain but then reasoned she was going to find out one way or another.

“Snape’s in the infirmary,” she said, searching Hermione’s face. 

Hermione stopped chewing, the awful memories of Snape’s preparations to poison himself, stealing away her appetite. He had collapsed. Had he had a break down? She would understand if he had, having been on the verge herself. She wrapped up the remainder of the muffin and shoved it back in the bag.

“He’s been sedated and restrained.” Ginny continued, watching Hermione closely.

Hermione frowned, “Restrained? Why?”

Ginny chewed her bottom lip.

“Why Ginny?” Hermione repeated, leaning forward to look her in the eye.

“I heard they’re holding him while they wait for officials to arrive from Azkaban.”

“What?!” Hermione shrieked. “What do you mean Azkaban? What would they want with him?”

Ginny sighed, shaking her head. “What do you think?”

Hermione looked genuinely puzzled. “What has he done?”

“Mione!” Ginny looked at her incredulously. “He raped a minor!”

“Did he?” said Hermione.

“Yes!” cried Ginny. “You!”

Hermione threw off her covers and leapt from her bed. “I’m not a fucking minor!”

“You’re seventeen Mione. You are a minor.” Ginny stood as Hermione started pulling clothes out of her dresser drawers.

“What are you doing?”

Hermione continued throwing clothes out of her drawers onto her bed. “Professor McGonagall knows I’m not a minor. I told her all about the time turner. I worked out that it had added over a year to my life. I’m closer to nineteen than seventeen!”

She hadn’t managed to change out of her torn and dusty clothing from the previous day but now threw them off into the corner, pulling on fresh underwear, jeans and a faded red shirt in record time.

Ginny still stared at her, as if she had gone mad.

“I don’t understand why you’re defending him?” she said.

Hermione whirled around. “Because I’m equally to blame!” she cried. “I raped him too. You were there. You tried to stop me!”

Ginny realised it was true. For some reason she hadn’t thought of Snape as a victim. It worried her that she had naturally blamed him for everything.

“So what are you doing to do?” she asked more gently.

“I’m going to convince them to let him go,” Hermione said, wrapping a tie around her hair and slipping on a pair of shoes. “Otherwise, they can send me to Azkaban too.”

“Mione!” Ginny cried.

But it was too late, Hermione had charged out the door.

 

* * *

 

“Hermione.” Hagrid raised his bushy eyebrows in greeting as she approached the infirmary door.

“Hagrid,” she responded, feeling awkward despite knowing the gentle giant so well.

They stood looking at one another, Hermione with her arms crossed and Hagrid leaning stiffly against the door frame, trying to appear casual. Hermione pretended to be reading a notice on the wall, while Hagrid pretended not to be watching her. Finally, she decided there was no easy way to say it.

“I need to see him.”

“Er . . . Well. Yer see. I can’ let yer see ‘im. Strict orders . . . From the top.” He looked at her apologetically.

Hermione sighed, running her fingers across her lips as she thought about her next move. She didn’t care that Hagrid could see her strategizing. He knew her well enough to know her mind would be moving at a million miles an hour.

“Why is he restrained? Is he dangerous?”

“Well,” Hagrid’s expressive face hid nothing. “Yer’d be the bes’ judge of tha’.”

His cheeks immediately blazed red as he buried his face in his beard, clearly regretting his words.

Hermione glared at him, her jaw clenching with anger and humiliation.

“Look . . . Hermione. I didn’t mean ter say tha’. I jus’ don’ know why yer want ter see ‘im. Not after what he done to yer.”

Hermione blinked in indignation. She loved Hagrid and knew he cared deeply for her but he wasn’t immune to the occasional, or even regular, gaffe.

“As a matter of fact, the person I really want to see is Madam Pomfrey,” she declared.

He looked at her suspiciously. She could run rings around him with her intellect and he knew this was exactly what she was trying to do. His knitted brow betrayed the fact that he was trying to work through her reasoning, and was clearly getting confused.

“She’s busy.” Was all he could come up with.

“I’ll wait,” Hermione said abruptly, returning to reading the notices.

His eyes darted around under his heavy eyebrows, looking uneasily between Hermione and the infirmary door. His finger tapped anxiously on the handle of his umbrella. It wasn’t two minutes before he finally gave in.

“I’ll go check if she’s still busy,” he said gruffly, shuffling backwards through the door to watch that she didn’t follow.

His huge dark shadow re-appeared only a few moments later.

“She says she’ll see yer in ‘er office,” he said, side-stepping out the door and taking up his position in front of it.

Hermione smiled. “Thanks Hagrid.”

Hagrid nodded but as she passed him, he placed his huge hand on her arm. “I jus’ wanna say I’m really sorry. I didn’ mean wha’ I said earlier. Sometimes findin’ the right words is as hard as catchin’ the golden snitch.”

She put her hand on top of his and squeezed it. “Sometimes there are no right words.”

He acknowledged her with another upward jerk of his eyebrows, before sighing heavily and folding his hands behind his back.

Hermione stepped through the doorway into the main room of the infirmary. Only one bed was occupied—a young boy whose face was spotted with angry red boils. They must be holding Snape in one of the isolation rooms. She quietly made her way to the office of Madam Pomfrey whom she found with her nose buried in a thick tome.

“Madam Pomfrey?”

She jumped before fixing Hermione with a look that was a curious combination of concern and intrigue.

“Miss Granger, please take a seat.” She gestured to the chair opposite her desk.

Hermione sat and had to resist crossing her arms. She didn’t want to appear defensive. But when she went to speak, Madam Pomfrey raised a hand.

“There are some things you need to know,” she started in her typically officious manner. “I know you are here about Professor Snape and I also know that you are aware of some . . . sensitive information relating to the Professor.” She sighed, looking unusually uncomfortable. “I believe you are also aware that the Professor has been taken ill. That he collapsed.” She paused again, blinking rapidly, as if trying to work her way over a difficult mental hurdle.

“While he was unconscious, Professor McGonagall extracted some of Professor Snape’s most recent memories and viewed them with his pensieve. Suffice to say, we are now aware of what was done to you and I wanted to pass on my heartfelt sympathy for what you went through. Professor McGonagall and myself came to find you immediately to offer you counselling but we were met by a very determined friend of yours, Miss Weasley, who would not allow us to disturb you. We were happy to respect her wishes but please don’t think that we weren’t concerned for your welfare.”

She finally took a breath.

“I’m sure you’ll agree that the only appropriate action for what Professor Snape perpetrated against you is imprisonment.”

Hermione crossed her arms.

“For that reason, Professor McGonagall has made the difficult decision to call in officials from Azkaban to collect Professor Snape at their earliest convenience.”

Hermione closed her eyes.

“I’m so sorry.” Madam Pomfrey came around her desk and placed a hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “I know it might not mean much to you in this moment, and it certainly can’t undo his actions, but Professor Snape was unlikely to have been in full control of himself at the time of the . . . of the . . . incident.”

Hermione’s eyes flew open. “What do you mean?”

The matron looked like she was in two minds about how much to tell her.

“Madam Pomfrey, I have a right to know,” she said evenly.

Nodding quickly, she returned to her seat and slid the tome around to face Hermione. She tapped on a paragraph at the top of the page.

“He’s been cursed. It’s an ancient and very rare condition—known as the Galvanismus curse. I’ve seen it only once before and that was a very long time ago. The curse creates electrical currents from chemical reactions within the body. It’s extremely uncomfortable and can manifest itself in a number of ways, ranging from tension and irritability to completely uncontrolled behaviour. It seems that, in Professor Snape’s case, the reactions were particularly enhanced by emotional turmoil, feeding off  strong or overwhelming feelings and sensations.”

Hermione stared at the description of the curse as Madam Pomfrey’s words caused her heart to sink lower and lower, until it felt like it was resting on her bladder.

“Unfortunately, in severe situations, the curse can induce a type of dissociative disorder in which the electrical activity builds to such an extent that an individual’s mind can split, creating a second personality with distinct memories and behaviour patterns. From our conversations with Professor Snape, it would seem that he has no memory of the event, despite the fact that it was retrieved from his mind for the purposes of the pensieve. He doesn’t, however, deny that he was responsible.”

Hermione’s throat was dry as she struggled to force the words out.

“It doesn’t seem like the type of curse that Voldemort would inflict,” she said. “It’s too slow, insidious, not like the cruciatus which gives instant . . . satisfaction.”

Poppy Pomfrey looked grim.

“No, we don’t think it was he who perpetrated this particular curse.”

“Then who?”

The older woman’s hands trembled as she straightened her starched collar.

“The Galvanismus, although a curse, is cast for protection,” she said. “It is also from the family of parasitic curses which are not created, but passed on from one individual to the next.”

Hermione frowned. “I don’t understand. How can it possibly be protective?”

“The curse, through its actions on the body, allows one to cling to life in the most extreme of circumstances. In the face of death, this curse will sustain the body, barely alive, for as long as required. It is undoubtedly what saved Professor Snape from dying from Nagini’s bite in the Shrieking Shack. No one, including Snape himself, has been able to determine the nature of his survival until now. In fact, until yesterday, he was completely unaware that he had been afflicted.”

“Who gave it to him?” Hermione’s voice shook, as she willed away the inevitable answer.

Poppy Pomfrey looked her in the eye.

“The man who loved him like a son. Who likely carried the curse for many years but had the mental and emotional fortitude to control it. Who released it to him when he asked to be killed, rather than using it to sustain himself. You know him as Albus Dumbledore.”

Hermione’s eyes filled. “Does Professor Snape know?”

Tears ran down Poppy Pomfrey’s cheeks. “Yes.”


	10. Chapter 10

Severus Snape lay motionless, a thin blanket covering him only to the waist. Each pale wrist was secured by an enchanted strap to bracing poles along the sides of his bed. It had taken Hermione an hour to convince Poppy Pomfrey, and then Professor McGonagall, to let her see him. And another half an hour of assurances to let her see him alone. Both looked as if they had been sucking lemons when she left them in Poppy’s office.

She slowly emerged from the shadows, the bed bathed in the golden glow cast by a ring of flickering candles. Expecting to see his eyes closed, she gave a small gasp when she found that his dark focus was on her. Neither of them spoke, even as she closed the final distance to his bedside. All the while she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was approaching a wild animal, a panther perhaps and, despite her best efforts, she was unable to resist the urge to cross her arms protectively before her. After all, the last time she saw him, she had been as vulnerable as a trapped mouse in the paws of a hungry cat.  

He remained impassive, neither appraising nor dismissing her. Just watching. She hadn’t known how she would feel being this close to him again. Would she hate him? Pity him? Or simply shut down, rendering herself bereft of any emotion whatsoever? Strangely . . . she felt none of those things. Instead, she was consumed by a desperate desire to understand. She had questions and wanted them answered, but she also feared what he would have to say to her or, worse, that he would choose to say nothing at all. She stood perfectly still, unable to break the silence. He needed to do it. To give her that. His chest rose and fell in slow, rhythmic waves, a large swathe of it exposed by an ill-fitting gown. Luminous skin stretched over taut muscle. It seemed out of place. Unreal.  

“You breached my wards.”

She stiffened at the deep richness of his voice. It easily filled the room although he made no effort to project. She hardened her gaze. It was an oblique reference to her presence in his chambers. Seeing him at his lowest, preparing to leave the world. She had stopped him. Was he angry with her for that?

“Your potion is . . . full of surprises.” His eyebrow jumped slightly in trademark Snape polysemy.

She knew he wasn’t talking about the potion. He was talking about her. Asking why she was here. It was going to be like this. For him at least. Cat and mouse. Cat and mouse. Too much had gone between them for the conversation to be straight forward.  

“Why do you think he gave it to you?”

She could see that she had hurt him. As soon as she’d said it, his head jerked away, facing the dark window panes, alive with torrents of silvery rain. Her stomach lurched at her boldness but she needed to cut through the charade. There simply wasn’t time for this semantic dance. His life depended on it.

“Why did Professor Dumbledore give you the Galvanismus curse?” she knew she didn’t have to reiterate or clarify but she also knew that exposing the difficult words was the only way they could be dealt with properly. He continued to stare at the window but his chest muscles tightened, rippling in the shadow of the flimsy cloth.

“How should I know?”

She was surprised that he answered at all. But it was the voice of the inner child, telling her that he had, in fact, formed an opinion. He and Dumbledore had had a complex relationship. She had been at the meetings of the Order when Dumbledore had seemed cold, even callous about Snape’s role as a spy. He had appeared content to push the younger man to sacrifice himself, using Snape’s traumatic past to compel him to act for the good of the Order—of the Wizarding World as a whole. Some saw Dumbledore’s behaviour toward Snape as a type of pragmatic detachment. Others thought he was more conniving, using Snape as a pawn. However, the revelations about the Galvanismus curse suggested otherwise. It seemed that Dumbledore had sacrificed his own life that Snape should live. Even if it meant carrying the burden of a curse that would ultimately overwhelm him. Causing him to wish himself dead.

“I smashed the bottle of poison because I, too, wanted you to live,” she said.

She needed him to know. But she didn’t anticipate the pain that welled in her when his silent tears began to fall. His hand jerked up as if to brush them away but the bonds meant that his arm simply rattled ineffectually by his side. It was cruel. All of it. Hermione snatched up a cloth from a pile nearby and leaned over him, gently wiping his face. Snape closed his eyes, the corner of his mouth twisting in anguish. It must have felt like the final humiliation. To have her, of all people, wiping his eyes like a mother caring for her child. But she remained, tending to him, while the tears flowed freely. He didn’t sob but drew deep shuddering breaths through his nose. It was as if he had never been allowed to weep and his body could accommodate no more than this. His tears streamed like untapped springs from beneath his closed lids, their flow mirroring the runnels of rain down the window panes.

Despite the urgency of their situation, Hermione did nothing to stem the tide. She realised that there was likely nearly forty years of pain behind this release and she knew better than to try to placate him. It was only after several candles guttered and died, that he finally drew breath and opened his eyes, red rimmed and swollen.

She withdrew the cloth and stood, stretching her tired back.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He muttered.

It was a bit late for that. She’d been there nearly two hours and was unlikely to be granted much more time with him.

“Professor, officials from Azkaban will be arriving tomorrow,” she said. “You’re aware that they intend to take you?”

His pale face was tired and drawn, dark shadows hollowing his eyes.

“It is not unexpected.”

Hermione grasped the bar on the side of his bed. “I’ve spoken at length with Professor McGonagall,” she said, looking at him earnestly. “She agrees that the charge against you is inappropriate. After all, I’m not a minor.”

Snape lifted his eyes to hers and blinked with weary resignation.

“So we’re just left with rape then?”

Hermione’s shoulders sank, she understood how futile it sounded. But she had a plan.

“I . . . I also told her that it wasn’t rape.”

His expression changed to one of scepticism.

“So what was it?”

Hermione twisted her hands nervously around the bar. “I told her it was consensual.”

“What?” his shoulders jerked, pulling the bonds tight around his wrists.

Hermione took a deep breath. “I told her it was . . . role play.” She winced, knowing how ridiculous it sounded. But it was all she had been able to come up with under Professor McGonagall’s earlier interrogation.

Professor Snape snorted, shaking his head. “What ignoramus is going to believe that?” he said.

“Professor McGonagall and an Azkaban official are both going to have to believe it,” she said. “We are to meet with them tomorrow.”

He continued to stare at her. “Why would you say such a thing?” he finally asked.

Hermione felt herself flushing under his gaze. “You don’t deserve to go to jail. You were under the influence of the Galvanismus curse which should surely be considered extenuating circumstances and . . . the truth is . . . I drove you to do it. I did the same to you. Twice.”

Snape regarded her warily. He had no memory of what had happened in the alcove but the aftermath was sufficient for him to be unconvinced of concocting such an explanation.

Hermione could see that he was dubious.

“It is your only chance Professor. If the court has access to your pensieve, they will see everything. If I can convince them tomorrow that I was a willing participant, we may simply be reprimanded for having sex in a public place.”

Snape leant back against his pillow and closed his eyes. She could tell that he would be pinching the bridge of his nose if his hands were freely available.

After a few moments he looked at her soberly. “Tell me what they will see?”

Hermione tapped her fingers on the bar. This wasn’t something she had anticipated having to do. A blow by blow account of the assault would be bad enough in front of a stranger but having to tell it to the perpetrator was both bizarre and gut-wrenching.

“Do you not remember anything?” she asked.

He returned her gaze. “Only the aftermath.”

She desperately wished she didn’t have to talk about it. “Professor McGonagall must already know that you don’t remember anything. Madam Pomfrey said they had spoken to you about it. They are not going to expect you to give an account of your actions.”

He sighed impatiently. “I need to know what they will see to determine the validity of the explanation you plan to give,” he said.

Hermione chewed on her lip as she stared at the tarry windows. It did make sense. Fuck it.

She crossed her arms and stared down at her warped reflection in the metal bar.

“You threw me into the alcove,” she began. “My books were scattered on the ground and my knees were scraped and bloody.”

She spoke in a monotone, her face expressionless.

“We discussed what I had done to you in oblique terms. No details. You said you would make me understand what it feels to be humiliated. That you would teach me a lesson.”

She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“You backed me against the wall and tore my shirt open. Then you touched my stomach and sucked on my . . . nipple.” It was getting harder for her to speak. She cleared her throat.

“You tore off my bra and knickers and asked if I liked making you come. I didn’t answer so you put your fingers inside me and tasted my . . . my juices.”

Now it was Snape’s turn to clear his throat. Her eyes flickered to him momentarily before returning to stare intently at the bar.

“You spoke about the potion and me giving you a blow job.” She cringed at the words. “Then you turned me around, pushed my legs apart and entered me from behind. I screamed. It was . . . bigger than I’m used to.”

She looked at him and he waved his fingers impatiently to indicate that she should continue, clearly uncomfortable with dwelling on the details.  

“You said some things about my . . . vagina and what you wanted to do to it. Then you started rubbing my clitoris and pinching my nipples. And you told me to come for you.”

“Did you?”

“What?” She frowned.

“Did you come?” he repeated.

“As a matter of fact I did,” she snapped. “Why do you ask? Making sure you haven’t lost your touch?”

He sighed and rolled his eyes. “This is actually just as uncomfortable for me as it is for you,” he said. “The reason I ask is that it is probably the best argument for it being consensual. Not unequivocal but certainly something.”

Hermione realised that he was speaking the truth and she believed him when he said that he wasn’t enjoying her retelling of the tale.

“Well this part is less convincing,” she said. “You pulled out, pushed me onto my knees and . . . ejaculated all over my face and in my mouth.”

She looked at him accusingly. Unable to forgive him for that particularly sordid moment. He gave a brief nod, staring at the blanket across his waist as if remembering the moment when his memory returned.

“It’s going to be difficult. For you in particular,” he mused, his lips drawn together in a thoughtful pout. “I can play my part. Describe how we developed feelings for one another during the period of detention. Perhaps explaining how this particular incident was a fantasy of mine.”

Hermione noticed his cheeks turning uncharacteristically pink and wondered if he were actually telling the truth.

“But you are going to have to make it sound like you . . . enjoyed it. Are you going to be able to do that?”

Hermione sighed. “I’m going to have to. I don’t want them looking at any more of your memories. Otherwise it could be me that ends up in court.”

Professor Snape narrowed his eyes at her. “And here I was thinking that you were doing this for me.”

“You did rape me.” she glared at him. “Don’t ever forget that.”

She turned and walked out of the room.


	11. Chapter 11

Hermione had been apprehensive about entering Professor McGonagall’s office in the past but never before had she felt as sick with fear as she did now. Knocking gently on the ancient door, she waited, fiddling with the cuff of her blouse. She had been unsure of what one should wear when preparing to air the sordid details of one’s sexual encounters with one’s potions professor. She didn’t wish to appear too casual—it was going to be difficult enough to avoid looking like a complete deviant as it was. Then again, she didn’t want to be too formal, too proper, or no one would buy the story. She had settled upon a slim fitted skirt, loose white blouse with a draped neckline and strappy leather sandals with low heels. Simple, elegant and, she hoped, a bit sexy. She was unsure of whom Azkaban would send but they had to believe that she wasn’t some innocent little swot who had been raped by her predatory professor. Although, admittedly, she had attempted to sell that story to herself only days before.

The door opened and Professor McGonagall’s severe face appeared. Although Hermione was the head girl at Hogwarts, one third of the golden trio and a member of her very own Gryffindor House, she couldn’t muster even the glimmer of a smile. This situation was as serious as it got and Hermione’s abdomen clenched as she was revisited by a grave sense of impending doom. Everything rested upon the outcome of this meeting. If she couldn’t convince them that she was in a consensual sexual relationship with Professor Snape, it would mean the beginning of a long stretch for him in Azkaban, and there was a good chance that she would follow.

Professor McGonagall held the door open for Hermione to enter. Three chairs had been set up beside a large window. Three? Thought Hermione. Why not four? Rising from one of the chairs as she entered, was a man in a light grey tailored suit and charcoal robe. As she approached, her breath quickened. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, Filch’s uglier half-brother perhaps, but extending his hand to her with a mixture of cool charm and piercing scrutiny, was a man that immediately conjured thoughts of the secret agent, James Bond.

“Miss Granger.” The corner of his mouth quirked up as he fixed her with piercing blue eyes. His hand was warm as he grasped hers. He hadn’t said “You must be Miss Granger” which meant he had most likely seen Professor Snape’s memory of her in the pensieve. He had probably seen everything, even her face as it was spattered with stream after stream of come. Looking through Snape’s eyes, it could have even felt like he was doing it to her. She felt considerably more ill.

“This is Mister Harris, he works for the Assistant Director of Correctional Services at Azkaban.” Professor McGonagall gestured to the man who still had his eyes fixed firmly on Hermione.

“Mister Harris.” Hermione nodded, drawing in a deep breath in an attempt to keep herself from fainting.

“Professor Snape should be with us shortly.” Professor McGonagall was clearly uncomfortable, moving swiftly to her desk. “Who would like tea?”

“No thankyou Professor,” Hermione said quickly. It was going to be difficult enough to lie to this man as it was, without a shuddering teacup in her lap.

“Black tea thanks.” Mr Harris said, taking his seat and turning casually to sling one arm along the back.

“Shaken and not stirred.” Hermione thought to herself, sinking into the seat diagonally opposite.

“Looks like more rain,” said Professor McGonagall briskly without looking at the window, clearly trying to make conversation.

Neither Hermione nor Mr Harris responded. He appeared to be studying the contents of a nearby bookcase while Hermione was studying him. The strong jawline and lean muscularity suggested that he had probably been, or might still be, an agent of some sort. No doubt an expert in interrogation. She was in deep trouble.

There was a loud knock on the door before it opened and Hagrid entered, pushing a wheelchair containing Professor Snape. Hermione’s heart sank. His wrists were, again, bound to the arms of the chair and the same thin blanket covered his knees. They hadn’t changed the ill-fitting gown which gaped at the neck, showing a pale, twisted scar. His hair hadn’t been washed in days and was greasy and lank; his skin sallow. The only part of him that moved were his black eyes, which took in the entire scene in moments.

Mr Harris didn’t attempt to hide his surprise at Professor Snape’s appearance. Clearly, he had been apprised of Hermione’s claim that she was having a consensual relationship with the man. His gaze slid up and down Hermione, taking in her elegant style and undeniable beauty before returning to Snape who easily looked twenty years older than his almost forty and could never be described as a handsome man, even without the ravages of the past days’ detention.

“Professor Snape, this is Mr Harris,” said Professor McGonagall.

Snape nodded but said nothing. He had seen how the arrogant ponce had looked at him. Setting his jaw, he looked down his nose with typical Snapish contempt.

Hermione didn’t know how he did it. He was clearly at a huge physical disadvantage to the ruggedly attractive agent.

“Well,” Professor McGonagall perched on the edge of her seat and clasped her hands as if they were seated for some sort of pleasant tea party. “Let’s get started.”

She turned to her left. “Mr Harris. I believe you have a few questions you would like to start with?”

He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head to the side as has if to indicate that he had even more questions now that he had actually seen the two individuals concerned. Pulling a small notebook from the inside of his suit jacket he flipped it open and scanned the page.

“Miss Granger.” He slowly drew his index finger along the ridgeline of his jaw before he looked up at her. “I understand from Professor McGonagall that you are in a consensual sexual relationship with Professor Snape. Is that correct?”

Hermione realised her body language was all wrong. She was turned as far away from Snape as she could get, her legs and arms both crossed. Forcing a smile, she adjusted herself, turning toward Snape whose eyes were boring into the man opposite, as if willing a cruciatus from his pupils.

“That is correct,” she said. “We’ve been . . . intimate . . . for only a week or so.”

The agent chewed the inside of his cheek as if considering her answer. He clearly didn’t believe her but couldn’t fathom why she would lie about it. He fixed his gaze on Professor Snape.

“Professor. Perhaps you can describe for us the nature of your relationship with Miss Granger,” he raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“We’re fucking,” said Professor Snape, causing Professor McGonagall’s mouth to drop open and her hand to rise to her chest. But he wasn’t finished.

“We have similar tastes in exotic sex, discovered in a recent period of detention. The past week has been devoted to exploring and experimenting.”

The agent’s jaw was tight and his pale blue eyes had turned icy. Clearly Snape wasn’t going to be easily intimidated. He slid his knees apart and adjusted his position in his seat, exposing his crotch in a blatant dominance display.

“Exotic.” He repeated the word and the corners of his mouth curled up in amusement. “Perhaps you could extrapolate. Expand upon what you mean by that?”

“I know the meaning of the word extrapolate.” Snape’s baritone voice was as slick and creamy as Hermione had even known it to be.

“Miss Granger has a particular penchant for certain . . . objects to be inserted inside of her. Any orifice will do. We have managed to achieve double penetration with food items on two occasions so far. She enjoys my tongue being inserted in her anus, while I fist her.”

Hermione choked but managed to make it sound like she was clearing her throat.

“Professor Snape has been very helpful in assisting me to explore my sexual needs.” She said matter-of-factly, completely dying on the inside. “He has also been very generous with sharing his own fetishes and fantasies.”

Snape eyed her warily.

“He enjoys wearing women’s underwear and sometimes a baby’s diaper when we’re having sex. He also enjoys drinking my urine but I haven’t been able to come at faecal . . . “

Snape snorted loudly through his nose and then finished with an exaggerated nod as if he were agreeing with her. She could tell he was struggling to control himself.

“He has also long desired to role-play raping a student,” she continued. “If you have viewed his most recent memory in the pensieve, then you will have seen that enacted. It finished with him coming all over my face. And I swallowed some. That was one of my fantasies.”  

The Azkaban agent crossed his legs and pulled his robe over his lap. Professor McGonagall slumped back in her chair, her face pale and her mouth gaping like a fish out of water.

“I think we’re done here.” Mr Harris turned to Professor McGonagall. “Professor, may I suggest you consider disciplining these two in-house?”

“What for?” Professor Snape glared at him as Hermione silently willed Snape to shut up.

The agent lifted his chin and threw him a look of disgust. “For deviant behaviour in a school environment.”

“We are two consenting adults. What we do in our private time is our own business.” Snape was determined to grind him into the ground. “And that thing in your trousers doesn’t seem to have too much of a problem with our ‘deviant’ behaviour.”

Professor McGonagall leapt up before Snape could say more. “Thank you for coming Mr Harris!” she beamed.

***

Hermione screwed up her nose as she placed her bag on the ground next to his bed. It wasn’t like Madam Pomfrey to leave a patient in the sort of condition that Professor Snape was in.

“Why isn’t Madam Pomfrey tending to you?” she asked.  

“I think I hurt her,” Snape replied. “I haven’t had a chance to apologise. She’s been avoiding me.”

“It was the curse,” he added when he saw the look of concern on Hermione’s face. “But I didn’t know it at the time. I just thought I was . . . out of control. Tainted by the past.”

It saddened Hermione to hear that he had thought himself inherently bad all the time that the curse was having its effect.

“Have you eaten?”

He shook his head. “That was Filch’s job. He’d hoped to see me taken to Azkaban and I imagine he’s now sulking in his room.”

Hermione sighed. She dipped into the bag and brought out a thermos and bread roll. Pulling a chair over, she filled the thermos cup with hot soup and brought it to his lips. He drank the entire cup down and then took a bite from the roll she held out for him.

“Why are you doing this?” He asked as he chewed.

Hermione knew that it wasn’t worth lying.

“Professor McGonagall was obviously appalled by what she heard today.”

“Just a bit.” The corner of Snape’s lip quirked up and Hermione realised it was the first time she had seen any essence of humour in him for a long time. Perhaps it was a good sign.

“She is considering terminating your employment.”

Professor Snape swallowed. “I thought she might.”

“And she’s considering not allowing me to sit my N.E.W.T.s”

“What?” He twisted around to face her. “That’s ridiculous!”

Hermione was touched that he would be more outraged about her treatment than his own.

“So we’ve come to an agreement,” she continued. “She’s fearful of releasing you until the curse is lifted or, at least, controlled. She’s given me a week to come up with something. Otherwise we’re both out.”

Snape rubbed the corner of his blanket between his fingers. It was unusual to see him fiddling, as it was a habit he admonished his students for on a regular basis.

“I’m to be your latest project am I?” He looked at her uneasily.

“Unless you have a better idea?” She let the empty cup hang at her side.

He stared at her for a few long moments. “Got any more of that soup?”


	12. Chapter 12

Hermione woke the next day with a renewed sense of purpose. She had always enjoyed an intellectual challenge and this was as difficult a task as she had ever encountered. She was going to have to become an expert on the Galvanismus curse and parasitic curses in general. Then she was going to have to come up with some way of either lifting the curse or controlling it long-term. And this was all to be achieved in the space of one week. The fact that the finest Wizarding minds in the world had not managed to achieve such a thing to date should have dampened her spirits, but her success with the extracorporeal projection potion, coupled with an, admittedly naïve, sense of youthful invincibility, made her feel that she might actually have a shot. A small one. But a shot nonetheless.

Before she could hit the library and start researching, however, she had an urgent matter to attend to in the infirmary. Fortunately, Professor McGonagall had given her permission to come and go from the infirmary as she pleased. In reality, the Head Mistress would be devastated to lose either Professor Snape or herself from Hogwarts and so was willing to give her the best chance of success by allowing her access when needed. She had told Hermione in no uncertain terms that she had been appalled by what was said at the meeting with the Azkaban agent, but also informed her that she was wise enough not to believe the details. The fact that two exceedingly intelligent, and normally trustworthy, people would go to such lengths to pretend that they were in a relationship told her that there was likely to be a good reason. However, she also said that the rumour mill would be turning at a frenetic pace and there would be pressure for her to get rid of one or both of them if she couldn’t give the staff and students assurances about their safety into the future.

* * *

When Hermione arrived at Professor Snape’s room, he looked as bad as she had ever seen him, staring out the grey-lit window with sunken eyes.

“Has anyone been in here since I left?” she asked, setting down her bags.

It seemed to take a while for her words to reach him. He turned to her and gave a small shake of his head, his face expressionless. She doubted he had slept. He must be exceedingly uncomfortable after spending nearly three days bound to the bed rails. After leaving here, she would make an urgent meeting with Professor McGonagall to see that his care was improved. Before then, she would make him as comfortable as she could. Not only did she see the need as a duty of care to a fellow human being, but she was aware that her ability to lift the curse would be dependent upon his body helping with the process and she couldn’t allow him to be in a poor state of health.

“Okay, first thing’s first.” She tried to make her voice sound light and breezy, knowing that there was likely to be some resistance to her plans. “Let’s get some breakfast into you.”

He blinked slowly. “And Project Snape begins,” he muttered.

Ignoring him, Hermione removed the containers from her bag that she had filled earlier in the kitchen. There was porridge, milk and honey and a large thermos of black coffee. She was worried that he may need to use the bathroom after the coffee and wasn’t sure about the logistics associated with that particular activity, but she was nothing if she wasn’t resourceful and would come up with a solution. Pulling up a chair, she began feeding him the porridge, occasionally wiping the spoon across his lips like she was feeding a baby. The action wasn’t lost on him and he soon clamped his mouth shut, not allowing any more in. When she held the spoon in mid-air in front of him he lost his patience.

“Miss Granger, would you kindly give me the dignity of feeding me like an adult,” he snapped.

Hermione was taken aback.

“I’m surprised you haven’t started making sounds like the Hogwart’s express.” He glowered at her.

Hermione hadn’t had much experience with this sort of thing but decided that she wasn’t above taking on feedback. She made a concerted effort to watch him more closely for indications that he was ready for his next mouthful and finished by dabbing his mouth with a napkin rather than rubbing it all over his face like her mother would have done when she was a child.

As he took sips of the scalding hot coffee, the colour returned to his cheeks and, despite the stimulant nature of the caffeine that was flooding his brain, his body seemed to relax. Perhaps it was the familiarity of something that he enjoyed, amongst the unfamiliarity of his current unpleasant circumstances. He slurped down two cups before he spoke again.

“I don’t suppose you know the command for unlocking these restraints?”

It was a pretty stupid question as Professor McGonagall would never tell Hermione and risk her uttering the words and releasing him prematurely. Her expression told him so.

“Pity,” he said, wincing as he wriggled uncomfortably. “I have an urgent need to visit the bathroom.”

Hermione had been considering the problem and didn’t hesitate before pulling out her wand, scourgifying the porridge bowl and transfiguring it into a bed pan.

She could tell from his deep scowl that her attempts to be Little Miss Helpful were hitting all sorts of sore spots on his ego, but he was also obviously in quite desperate need to relieve himself and so he simply snorted distastefully and nodded toward his groin.

“I’m going to require a modicum more help than that.”

Hermione did her best to appear calm as her heart jackhammered in her chest.

“If you’ll just lift your backside off the bed, I’ll slip this under you,” she said.

She could tell he was rolling his eyes without even looking at him.

He gripped the bars on either side of his bed and lifted himself up. She caught a brief glimpse of his fuzzy buttocks between the flaps of his gown as she slipped the bowl beneath him, then busied herself with tidying the breakfast things into her bag while he relieved himself. She heard a faint sigh escape him and realised he had probably been holding on for an inordinately long time. Things were going to get even more awkward, so she needed to pull herself together and embrace her self-appointed care role with greater enthusiasm if she were going to get through the morning with him.  

She stood and smiled warmly at him. “All done?”

“For fuck’s sake,” he closed his eyes as he continued gripping the bars. “Don’t let’s pretend that this isn’t fucking awful.”

Then she started to laugh. The situation really was awful. Her high tinkling laughter filled the room and she couldn’t stop it. He tried to glare at her but his lips were curled up too and a low chuckle escaped him before he could stop it.

No doubt Madam Pomfrey would be wondering what was going on. 

Hermione wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes, before reaching over the bed and tapping him on the leg. “Lift your bum.”

He did as instructed and she removed the bowl.

“What is this? Three days’ worth?”

He sighed as he lowered himself back down. “Indeed.”

Hermione took the pan into the adjoining bathroom and flushed its contents down the toilet. She scourgified it and returned to stand over him.

The lines on his face seemed less prominent, as if the strain of holding onto the contents of his bladder had been causing considerable discomfort.

“There are some other things that we need to do,” she said, holding onto the bar at the side of his bed, “and I’d prefer it if you would just do them without the performance. I understand you’re not comfortable with any of this but I need you as healthy as possible if I’m going to have any chance of helping you with the curse.”

She could see him considering her words and biting back the retaliation he would normally fire off to reassert himself in times like this.

He acquiesced with a curt nod but eyed her warily.

“Now I’m going to wash your hair,” she announced.

He instantly forgot his previous assent. “No you’re not.”

“Yes I am. And I’m going to use my own products.”

“My hair is not in need of Muggle products. I have my own.”

“Yes I know. Grindylow Grease.”

Snape’s eyebrows shot up. “I do not wash my hair with Grindylow Grease.”

She gave up any pretence of politeness. “Whatever you use, it’s greasy and it’s not doing you any favours.”

“And why would I require favours from a hair product?” he sniped.

Although she was trying to assert herself, Hermione could feel a smile creeping onto her lips. She was surprised at how much he amused her.

Forcing herself to take up a more stern countenance that she felt, she transfigured the small porridge bowl into a large rectangular one.

“I’m washing your hair using my products and that’s final.” She carried the trough into the bathroom. “You might even enjoy it.”

She heard his derisive snort as she filled the bowl with warm water from the bathroom taps. It was considerably heavier after it had been filled, so she cast levioso and guided the steaming bowl back to the bed. Assisting Snape to slide forward, she stacked an extra two pillows under his neck so that when he lay down, his hair draped over the back of the pillows into the bowl. Transfiguring the thermos cup into a jug, she leaned over and proceeded to trickle the warm water over his dark locks, following up the water’s caress with a soothing palm.

The effect was instantaneous, his entire body seemed to melt into the mattress and an ecstatic groan escaped his lips. He didn’t even seem to notice, his eyes fluttering closed. She repeated the action, dragging her fingers through each swathe in turn, gently grazing his scalp with her nails. His entire body clenched and then relaxed. It was as if every muscle was tuned into every hair on his head. When his hair was thoroughly drenched, she squirted a large silken bead of shampoo into her palm and smeared it over his scalp. She proceeded to massage it in, whilst digging her fingers through his locks, determined to remove the days of oily build-up and any remaining residue from whatever foul product he usually used.

He leaned back into her hands like a cat being stroked. She was glad he couldn’t see the grin on her face. After rinsing the shampoo out, she applied a handful of conditioner, massaging it with firm strokes through to the ends of his locks. Both products bore the strong aroma of vanilla and she smiled at the thought of others smelling Snape’s vanillary hair.

Snape opened his eyes a fraction and saw her face swimming above his. She was either smiling or grimacing. He suspected it was the latter at having to touch his dirty locks. But he didn’t care. He felt like he had finally died and gone some place far better. He could never have imagined that having his hair washed could feel so intimate. So sensual. Not only that, he felt nurtured and . . . he hardly dared to think it . . . loved.

He had to pull himself together. He did not have a relationship with the girl. And he had never been intimate with her. Not really. Intimacy required vulnerability and he would never willingly allow that to happen with another human being again. Not since . . . No, he didn’t care to think of her any more. He had wasted too many years obsessed with Lily Potter and it had only brought him misery. She was the reason he had never had any true relationships or even friendships. His heart had been broken and the pain was too much for him to chance again. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down any further. His history with the Granger girl so far had been utterly combative, he would be a fool to expect otherwise.

“All done.” She rubbed and squeezed his hair with a large towel before dismissing the water with a flick of her wand and transfiguring the bowl back to its normal size.

“Now that wasn’t so bad was it?”

She really was smiling at him. Was she simply revelling in her own smug dominance? He wondered. It didn’t seem to be the case. Why, then, would she smile?

“The next thing is to get rid of this abomination.”

Before he had a chance to protest, she had disintegrated the hospital gown and disappeared the pieces, leaving him naked from the waist up. He reflexively tried to cover himself before his shackled wrists protested.

“What, in Merlin’s name, are you doing?” he growled.

“I need to wash the rest of you,” she said. “But I forgot that there was something else I wanted you to do.”

He rolled his eyes before glaring at her angrily.

“I need you to exercise,” she said, ignoring the snarl on his face.

“What!” he spluttered.

“As I informed you previously,” she said calmly. “You need to be in good physical condition for me to make any attempt at dealing with the curse or even investigating it properly. If you are forced to lie here for a week and a half, you are going to lose muscle mass and cardiovascular fitness. I want you to start by lifting yourself up on the bars and dipping your body down. Do as many repeats as you can.”

His lips parted as if he were about to speak.

“And I said no more performances please Professor.” She turned away from him and proceeded to walk around the bed.

With a deep sigh, he did as she instructed, grasping the bars on both sides of the bed with his hands and lifting himself up. Letting his elbows bend, he lowered his body down toward the mattress, before pushing himself back up. Hermione turned to watch and was quite taken aback by what she saw. His chest and shoulders bulged with rippling muscles. They were more akin to what she would expect to see in Harry and Ron’s ‘Masters of Quidditch’ magazines than adorning her snarky old potions professor.

“And I suppose this couldn’t have been done with my gown on,” he ground out, as he continued pushing against the bars.

“Not anymore.” Hermione murmured, almost wistfully, as she continued to watch him.

His wet hair clung to his face and neck and there was a sheen of sweat on his skin. She felt herself honing in on his every feature, even noticing the small droplets that clung like dew to his long eyelashes. And then there was the blanket that slipped down millimetre by millimetre as he pumped his arms. It receded ever so gradually until the two muscles gently sloping down to his pubic region were exposed and prominent, even the veins within them were bulging. She didn’t know the name of them or even what the area was called but she had always admired . . .

“Are you sure I’m doing this for my benefit only?” He cut through her thoughts.

She crossed her arms and strolled nonchalantly around the back of his bed so he couldn’t see her blushing furiously.

“I think that’s enough on your arms and shoulders. Let’s start on some leg lifts. Then we’ll move on to calf stretches.”

By the time he had finished exercising, he was puffing with exhaustion and covered with sweat.

Hermione transfigured the bowl once again and filled it with warm water before returning to his bedside and retrieving a soft sponge from her bag. She dipped the sponge in the water and began to wash his glistening chest with it. He grimaced but didn’t complain. Mainly, she suspected, because he hadn’t managed to catch his breath yet. She was acutely aware that the idea of someone touching him like this, especially on the areas of skin marked by twisted and lumpy scars from his years of torture, would feel distinctly uncomfortable, and possibly even terrifying. But he needed washing and there was no one else to do it. She continued to dip the sponge into the water and push it over his chest, around his neck and under his arms. As she moved down to his abdomen, his eyes jumped to hers. She knew exactly what he was thinking but there was no way she was going to give up before thoroughly executing her plan to leave him clean, fed and tired enough to sleep.

“I’m sorry but I have to do this,” she said, slipping the sponge down under the edge of the blanket. “You’re sedated aren’t you?”

“Not that sedated,” he ground out through gritted teeth.

It was true. No sooner had her hand dipped down toward his pubic area than she noticed a large bulge appear under the blanket. Drawing in a deep breath she clamped her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Think unpleasant thoughts,” she said, before throwing the blanket off and applying the warm wet sponge to his cock and balls.

“Uhhh,” he threw his head back and locked his arms, the veins in his biceps bulging like caterpillars under his skin.  

Undeterred, Hermione continued to clean him thoroughly, holding on to his erect shaft as the sponge glided along his length.

“Merlin’s bloody balls! I thought this was supposed to be a sponge bath not a heavy duty washing cycle,” he growled, trying to stop himself from thrusting into her palm.

Hermione quickly dropped his waggling member which seemed to follow her with its eye, even as she progressed down his body to his muscular thighs, calves and feet. She rolled him over and washed the back of him, squeezing the sponge up through his buttocks before rinsing for a final go at his back.

When she had finished, he seemed to be breathing just as heavily as when she had started.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I really didn’t think it would cause that sort of . . . response.”

He glowered at her. “It’s actually been quite a while since anyone has willingly touched me there. Apart from being touched for the sake of humiliating me in front of the entire school of course.”

She stopped what she was doing and glared back at him. She had been trying to make up for her past indiscretions as best she could and was furious that he should bring it up again. Clearly, he was trying to regain some sort of control after the embarrassment of the sponge bath but it still hurt. Taking a few steadying breaths, she dipped into her bag.

“I brought these.” Her voice was flat and emotionless.

In her hands was a small bundle of charcoal coloured clothing.

“They’re mine. I’ve transfigured them for you. I’ll get them back when you’ve finished with them.”

With a wave of her wand, the seams of the pyjama top and shorts separated, allowing the material to wrap around Snape’s body before restoring themselves.

He was suddenly hit by a wave of emotions. The pyjama material felt so soft and smooth, as if she had worn them hundreds of times. And they smelled like her—vanilla, peach and a hint of rose. Just like when she had washed his hair, he felt enveloped in a soft warmth. He felt nurtured. And he felt loved. It was so difficult to take as he was still sporting a raging erection which was creating an unsightly bulge in the soft charcoal shorts. He wanted to tell her how she made him feel. That he was sorry.

“I hope you get some sleep.” Hermione didn’t look at him as she lifted the bag over one shoulder and left the room.


	13. Chapter 13

Severus was immeasurably tired but there was no chance of him sleeping. His entire body sagged like a limp rag, all except the rigid boner in his shorts which had been begging for release for so long without relief, that it was threatening to become a permanent fixture. Every time he moved, the impossibly smooth fabric of his borrowed pyjamas rubbed like burnished silk against his sensitive skin. It was bliss compared with the standard issue sandpaper gown provided, but it also applied a fuzzy warmth, reminiscent of her soft, supple hands. Coupled with her distinct and heady aroma, which had suffused the material completely, neither his mind nor his body could shake the sense that she was there, touching him all over. It was the most exquisite torture he had ever endured and even if his eager cock was never attended to, he would still be immensely grateful to her. But would he ever tell her as much? Not likely.

He was discombobulated. That was a word he wouldn’t mind throwing at Mr Harris, the stupid prick. He was in a more vulnerable predicament now than he had ever been before but he found himself longing for her return. It wasn’t like him at all. Perhaps his dilemma could be solved through the simple action practised by said girl at annoyingly frequent intervals. He took his lower lip between his teeth. Nothing changed. He still felt conflicted. Perhaps his thin lips and yellowed teeth didn’t quite capture the full effect—the image of her neat, pearly teeth, digging into her plump, rouged lips gave his erection another stir.

“Fuck!” he cried out, cursing the forsaken binds and rattling them in frustration.

Despite his sedation, he knew that the quickening hadn’t particularly abated. It was still simmering away, surging with passing thoughts and feelings. The quickening—he hadn’t quite managed to make the semantic conversion to Galvanismus, it didn’t sound right and he’d known it as the quickening for far longer. And what of the Galvanismus curse? Dumbledore’s gift to him when he died. As he died. Snape shook his head as he stared at nothing. It was too raw. Too big a wound to turn an ascerbic mind to at this point in time. Maybe he would process it later. Maybe she could help him. What the fuck was he talking about? He slammed his head back into his pillow. His insomnia was sending his thoughts to all sorts of places they shouldn’t go. He needed a diversion.

If only the binds didn’t interfere with his wandless magic he would roll up one of those towels in the pile over there, put a squirt of something slippery inside, perhaps she had left a bottle of one of her products behind? And remotely position it over his cock. Then he would gently lower it down, thrusting his erection into the slippery folds. Dragging the bundle up and down over his rock hard dick, he would imagine he was thrusting into her creamy heat. Into her body . . . into her . . . his eyes fluttered closed and finally he slept.

***

Hermione spent the rest of the day and most of the evening in the library, forgetting to eat and poring over a mound of text books. She had met with Professor McGonagall and alerted her to the problems with the care plan for Professor Snape. Professor McGonagall was as unhappy as she had been, and Hermione was now confident that he would be getting his meals on time and would be assisted to the bathroom when needed. However, she had also ensured that she could continue to see him every morning to deliver the other aspects of his care.

Exhausted, she fell into bed at midnight, her mind a blur of words and images. She had so much to learn in so little time. Falling into a restless sleep, she was visited some hours later, by a lucid dream.

She was standing by the side of his bed wearing only her satin camisole and a pair of cotton knickers. He was speaking to her in that familiar rumbling baritone—rich and viscous like hot caramel. He was instructing her. Ordering her. And she was following his commands. He had complete control over her and she felt powerless to oppose him. Although his wrists were still bound, his dark eyes bored into her, she felt them physically penetrating her and pulling her toward him.

“You will climb on top of me now.” His gravelly tone set her nether regions aquiver.

And then she was drawn, bodily, over the bar and onto the bed. Only by his mind. His will. She straddled his naked torso with her thighs, his downy skin tickling her down there. The soft warmth of him between her taut muscles reminded her of the bare back horse riding she enjoyed in her hols. Now she was enjoying another feeling in her holes.

“I always thought you would look good on me.” His silky voice slid into her core, as his smouldering gaze dragged from her visibly damp knickers, clinging to the curves of her swollen lower lips, up over the sheer camisole that accentuated her straining breasts, casting them in bronze, to the shadowy hollows of her throat where her pulse was rippling under the tender skin there, to her moist, pillowy upper lips where his gaze fixed as he gave his next instruction.

“Feed me.”

“I . . . I haven’t brought any food.” Hermione’s dream voice was so much softer, lighter than her own.

“Now, that’s not quite true is it?” He tilted his head, adjusting his gaze. “I see a smorgasbord of . . .  delectable morsels just waiting—asking to be devoured.” Each word rolled around deliciously on his tongue before being released. On their journey to her ears, they abraded her nipples, causing each bud to pucker and stiffen.

“Ahhh, and there they are.” His penetrating gaze dropped to her smooth aureate pebbles. “Asking for my attention. Striving for it. They remind me of a little swot I once knew. Hand held high. Straining for my gaze. Always so earnest. So desperate. And now you have it. You have me. And are seeking to tempt me. With those ripe strawberries dipped in chocolate.”

Her head swam with the intensity of his words. Her chest heaved as she tried to draw in more air.

“As much as I would enjoy sucking you out of that satin skin. I must ask you to remove it. Now.”

She did as he instructed. Unable to resist.

Peeling the sheer camisole off and casting it aside, her creamy breasts now hovered over him, his biceps straining against the binds, divulging his desire to reach out and touch her.

“I think I’ll have that finger back now.” His voice had turned a shade darker and his eyelids shuttered ever so slightly. “The one that you cut when creating that magnificent potion—Extracorporeal Projection. Did I tell you how much I appreciated the name? From the Latin, corpus or body—I wonder if you always imagined it would be used for both bodily projection and bodily invasion. I wonder. Yes. I wonder about you. And your mind. And your intentions. And your fantasies. What you try to keep hidden.” She could feel her throat closing, managing only a gasp in response. “But you know, don’t you, that your secrets won’t remain hidden with me. I’ll find them. And expose them.” He bored into her with intensity. “And when I do, I have the power to make them alright. Only then you will feel . . . complete.”

She almost collapsed under the emotional weight of his insinuations. His black eyes held her in an awful truth that she couldn’t escape.  

“And now . . . that finger.”

She reached a trembling hand toward him and as she dipped down toward his mouth, his lips parted, sucking her digit into the familiar, but still frighteningly intimate, cavern of his mouth. He had the tongue of a Slytherin, serpentine as it slithered around her. When he sucked in a second digit, his tongue licked up between the two like it was snaking between the lips of her labia. She groaned in response and her neck was no longer able to hold her head up, causing it loll to one side.   

After minutes of lapping and sucking, he drew his chin up and allowed her pink, glistening digits to pop free.

“I want your nipples to know what your fingers have now learnt. Show them.”

She withdrew her hand and traced her wet fingertips over one jutting nub. She smeared his saliva liberally around and over it.

“Show them,” he repeated.

And she did. Mimicking his laving, sinuous tongue, she rubbed, pulled, rolled and twisted her well lubricated nipples until she was keening with lust and her knickers were firmly stuck with creamy juices to his abdomen.

When she finally opened her eyes, he was smiling at her. “You were always a quick learner. One of the best. A mind like a steel trap. And, if I remember correctly, a cunt like a steel trap as well.”

He was clearly remembering, as his blanket had slipped down and she could feel his immense cock sliding up the back of her buttocks. The sensation of his warm member against her back, coupled with the cool air on her moist nipples, sent further convulsive shocks through her body.

“Now we’ve finished with h'orderves, it’s time for entrée.” His smile dropped away, replaced by that intense smouldering fire. “I see you’ve been preparing something else for us to share.” His gaze rested on her saturated knickers. “Perhaps, since you have gone to so much effort, you can have the first taste.”

A crimson flush rolled down her skin, all the way to her breasts. But, again, she was powerless to oppose him.

He watched her intently as her hand slid down her abdomen into her knickers. She lifted herself off him slightly but her knickers remained attached to his skin as if they were glued there. His large nostrils flared as he drank in the scent of her arousal and watched her fingers slide deeper and deeper under the fabric until they had reached her source. Her eyes fluttered closed as she slotted into her impossibly slick channel. She had never known it to feel so ripe and ready. When she felt her fingers were sufficiently coated, she slowly withdrew them and raised them to her engorged lips. Opening her eyes, she locked onto his, slipping both digits into her mouth. She could tell that it had been freshly made by her body—salty but sweet. And sucking that heady nectar felt so auto-erotic that she suddenly gushed another release into her knickers, which were now filled beyond capacity.  

He swallowed as he watched her. Enjoying the vicarious indulgence. Waiting patiently for his turn. She didn’t waste a drop, clamping her lips tightly around her fingers as she withdrew them.

He was smiling again. “I hope there’s enough left for me.”

Without answering, she dipped her hand back into her knickers which were as hot and humid as a greenhouse and delved deep into her folds. Her fingers came out thick with her pearlescent cream which she now offered to him, her limbs moving of their own accord. This time, rather than sucking them into his mouth, he slid his tongue out, trailing it gently up each digit. She watched as her juices pooled on his succulent pink muscle, before he drew it back into his mouth and swallowed. He kept coming back for more until her fingers had been licked clean.

Closing his eyes, he sighed and leant back into his pillow. Revelling in her smell and taste.

“You may consider me a glutton. But I don’t think I can wait for main course.”

He finally opened his eyes to regard her with a look of such raw desire that her breath hitched.  

“Perhaps you can cast that clever spell you used on my pyjamas. Use it to remove those sodden knickers before they stick to me completely.”

Her wand suddenly appeared in her hand and she cast the spell, sending her knickers away in the direction of her camisole.

“Now, you obviously enjoyed giving me that sponge bath. I’m looking at your lovely soft sponge now. I want you to bathe me with it. I want to see a slick, shiny trail all the way up to my mouth.”

She was utterly mortified by the suggestion but, as with everything else, she was destined to obey him. Pulse shuddering at her throat, she leaned forward, flattening her pubic hair against his skin. Then, pressing against him, she started dragging her sopping hole over his flat stomach. He groaned and closed his eyes at the sensation of her slick heat winding its way up his body.

Shuffling her knees forward, she continued to paste her juices over his hard muscles, gasping with the friction against her clitoris and labia. She made her way up over his pectoral muscles which she could tell he was clenching and squeezing on purpose to jolt against her swollen and tender lips. Finally she reached his throat. Her knees were curled around his shoulders and her pussy was flush against his larynx.  

“You can stop right there,” he said. And the sensation was electrifying. His voice-box vibrated right through her core. “Let’s have a little musical interlude.” Again his long vocal chords thrummed over her entire nether region. She winced with the intensity of the sensation. And then he swallowed, his Adam’s apple tripping her clitoris.

“Unhhh,” she cried out, grasping at the bars on the sides of the bed.

Before she could regain her composure, he started. She should have known from the mellifluous sound of his speaking voice that he would be musical. But this was something else altogether. He didn’t sing but hummed, a deep reverberating tone that felt like a plucked guitar string buzzing against her most sensitive regions. As the tune rose and fell, his prominent Adam’s apple pushed, and vibrated against her clitoris. She threw her head back, her entire body clenching from the sensation. He was playing her like a musical instrument, her insides reverberating like a resonance chamber. It went on for some minutes and she could feel the arousal tricking out of her and down his neck. She had to resist the urge to grind herself into his throat which would have, no doubt, killed him if she had been able to attend to it with the intensity that she wished. He finally finished with a long low note that left her feeling oddly bereft but also almost insane with unfulfilled tension.

He chuckled as he saw the wild look in her eyes and, again, her pussy was teased mercilessly with the sensation.

“We’ve both waited long enough,” he said. “Climb onto my face and lets finish this off.”

She didn’t need a second invitation, her whole body was aching with the strain.

Shuffling herself forward, hands still braced on the bars, she gently lowered herself down. And it was bliss, to finally have her aching hole filled with his long muscular tongue. She groaned and closed her eyes as he thrust into her, his nose rubbing against her clitoris. His movements never stopped, rocking his head against the pillow, shifting angles and plunging into her. She started matching his movements with her own, rolling her hips to enhance the depth of his penetration. Then she began seeing stars as the tension mounted inside her. She could feel that this was going to be an explosion like no other. The build-up had been just too great. Panting through her mouth, she reached down and grabbed a handful of his soft hair, giving in to the need to ride her tension out to release. And he let her. Never stopping with his urgent thrusting as she ground into his face, her sheath tightening around him. Then it started, the quaking in her thighs which built to an uncontrollable shudder in her pelvis and ended with an explosion inside her muscular core. She screamed as she convulsed, continuing to ride his face like a rodeo cowgirl as her orgasmic juices gushed out of her. He didn’t stop, gulping down great mouthfuls of her release as she came over and over again.

Only when her fourth orgasm started did she wake, drenched in sweat and lying in a large puddle of her own juices. Gasping, she felt the shocking intensity of the dream and, for once, she wouldn’t need to consult her dream book to work out what it meant.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And if any of you are interested in what SS was humming. This is the song that I had in mind by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds—ingeniously included in the Deathly Hallows (Part I) and as Snape-like as I can imagine. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_0dq6SL8WRc


	14. Chapter 14

Hermione was concerned that the guilty pleasure of her lucid dream would be plastered all over her face when she entered the infirmary the next morning. Despite Snape bringing up their rocky past the day before, she had felt that the air between them was finally starting to clear. And now, the overfamiliarity of her intense evening with Dream Snape was, no doubt, going to make it difficult for her to re-calibrate back to dealing with Reality Snape.

Making things worse was the fact that, when she finally entered his room after a late start, he seemed to have made the giant leap from staring morosely out the window, to the far more disconcerting and entirely unfamiliar proposition of smiling. It wasn’t a smile to challenge the efforts of the Cheshire cat but it was a smile nonetheless. Corners of mouth turned up—Yes, that was definitely a smile.

Hermione was so shocked to see it that she actually turned to look behind herself in case she had missed something. Slowing to a stop just short of the bed, she found herself wondering if he was genuinely pleased to see her or if there was some sort of nasty surprise on the cards.

“Good morning.” He was lying back looking relatively comfortable despite the binds, trailing the long elegant digits of one hand slowly up and down the smooth metal of the bed rails.

It seemed a benign enough greeting, but she continued to appraise him warily. Something wasn’t quite right.  

She swung her bag off her shoulder and clasped it to her chest, giving a tight-lipped smile—not quite trusting herself to trust him.

“So you got some sleep then?”

He nodded, glancing down at the charcoal pyjamas that clung to his form like a well-worn glove.

“These items of yours provided a high level of comfort. I wondered if you might have missed them.”

She was surprised that he had even considered it but also wondered what he was really asking.

“No, they’re just an old pair,” she gave a dismissive wave, not wanting to elicit a deeper probe from him.

Tipping his head back onto the pillow, he peered down his nose at her with interest.

“I’m pleased to hear you have other options,” he finally said, continuing to stroke the bar.

Deciding that the level of awkwardness had reached dire proportions, she broke eye contact and hurried behind the bed to where he couldn’t see her.

“Did they bring you breakfast and take you to the bathroom?” She crouched down to unpack her bag, glad for something entirely functional to occupy the conversation.

She heard him inhale deeply through his nose. “Yes, all inputs and outputs have been dealt with.”

His perfunctory response suggested he was less interested in discussing his care than in pursuing their previous exchange.

“Did you sleep well?”

As his question hung in the air, her mind started jumping about like a flea in a fit. Had she just imagined the note of amusement in his voice? She could never tell with him, he always managed to infuse any simple statement with annoying complexity. Or maybe it was just an innocent question that sounded far more loaded through the filter of her guilty conscience.

“Fine thank you,” she replied stiffly before transfiguring yesterday’s bowl with a flourish of her wand and heading to the bathroom to fill it.

“You don’t seem to be riding as high as you were.”

His voice reached her from the adjoining room. What a bizarre thing to say. It wasn’t a turn of phrase he would ever use. Not unless he was trying to make a point. Riding high? Now why would he say . . .

Oh my fucking god!!

A thousand tiny puzzle pieces that had been swirling in her mind since she had entered the room suddenly crashed together. She clapped a hand over her mouth, gaping with horror. She’d been exhausted when she’d finally gone to bed the previous evening. After hours without food and drink, she’d had a splitting headache and had felt around in the dark for a headache potion. But now the memory of drinking it turned her stomach to lead. Rather than the bitter motes of the healing tincture, the liquid had been crisp, cool.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

There was a damn good reason her dream had seemed overwhelmingly real. Oh Gods!

The bowl was overflowing all over the floor. She continued to watch it cascading onto her shoes, unable to assimilate all of the required mental processes to stop it. What had she done? Her mind was suddenly a hurricane, trying to whip all of her thoughts into sense. She circled around and around, looking at every angle. And there seemed to be only one possibility. Somehow her extracorporeal projection must have drifted subconsciously down to Snape’s room during the night. Holy fuck!

She put a shaking hand to her forehead. But there had been sound, smells, tastes—not like a normal projection. No doubt some parts had been inserted or embellished by her subconscious. She shook her head. It was going to be impossible to tell which elements were real and which were constructions of her over-active mind.

Then his words returned. ‘Riding high.’ The vision of her furiously grinding into his face as she came over and over again in his mouth caused her stomach to clench and she almost threw up. No wonder his behaviour seemed a bit odd.

He heard the distinct sound of water falling on the floor. “Do you need a hand in there?” he called.

He almost chuckled at his own provocative quip. Although directly behind him, he could just imagine her frozen to the spot, paralysed with dread. He’d suspected the projection had been subconscious all along. It had arrived more gently than ever before, bumping along his skin in the dead of night like a Flitterby. There was no particular direction to its movements—adhering to him, instead, like the electrostatic attraction of a rubbed balloon.

He remembered the sense of portent he’d felt—the way all things are rendered ominous by the eerie quietude of the small hours. And coupled with the fact that he hadn’t stopped thinking about her the entire day, its arrival had spurred the quickening into immediate action.

With his thoughts and feelings in disarray, it had taken him some time to work out how to engage with it. Gradually reigning in his galloping heart, he discovered that by focusing on his interface with the projection and the sensations surrounding it, he could influence its action, much like waves can toy with a drifting boat. And with his telepathic ministrations, the projection had undulated, in and out of the material plane. The more provocative his intentions, the more physical it became, until he found that it was following his directions, and even starting to express its own impulsions. He felt her gradually commit until she had inhabited the projection fully and was soon exerting her influence over him. His swollen and tender lips and slightly strained tongue could attest to the fact that she had, indeed, fully embraced the moment when it came.

“Fuck!” He heard her hiss, as the sound of water splashing abruptly abated.

The murmur of her urgently casting drying spells had him smiling again. In reality, it wasn’t fair to tease her with her subconscious exploits. But it was just so irresistible. She was irresistible. He sighed and readjusted his position in the bed. How had it come to this? It was only a day since she had washed his hair and already he was smitten. In fairness, his feelings had probably been building for a while before then. At least a week. He shook his head. Utterly ridiculous. He was a man committed to the long and unfulfilled obsession. What, then, was going on here? Just over a week? Admittedly, it had been an abnormally intense week, but still.

She was standing with her hands on her hips, looking around the bathroom at nothing in particular, wondering if she should just leave. How could she face him after what she’d done? It had all been subconscious, but it was her subconscious. The projection hadn’t ended up at his bedside by accident.

But then what? She couldn’t run away from him forever. If she was genuinely committed to trying to lift the curse, she needed to see the week through, no matter how uncomfortable it became. In reality, it was her fault that he was shackled in the infirmary in the first place. Without the extracorporeal projection, she wouldn’t have incited him to do the things he did. She chewed on her bottom lip. Or maybe he would have done them anyway. There was no control for this experiment so she’d never actually know—not a particularly scientific approach.

And that’s what she had to be. Throughout this whole week. Scientific. Clinically detached. She needed to treat her research and his care as the evidence base and translation to practice central to all good experimental protocols. She closed her eyes and tilted her face to the ceiling, drawing in deep lungfuls of air. She could do it. She could face his smug derision. Then she would either get rid of that fucking curse or be out of Hogwarts. Either way, she would be liberated from having to deal with him any more. From having to be near him. Being near him was the problem.

Steeling herself, she cast levioso and steered the bowl over to his bed. He had been waiting quietly for some time and she wondered what else he had been working up for her. Without speaking, she propped two more pillows behind his head but, unlike the previous time, there was no prompting required for him to lay down for his hair wash. He closed his eyes, already more relaxed that she had ever seen him in the infirmary.

“Clinical detachment. Clinical detachment.” The mantra repeated in her head as she ran jug after jug of warm water through his hair. In reality, it probably didn’t need to be washed daily but she knew how much he liked it and building his physical, mental and emotional fortitude was going to be important for what was to come. As she started massaging in the shampoo, his eyes opened and locked with hers. His expression, although upside down, was surprisingly soft and the corners of his mouth drew up slightly, each time she raked across his scalp. He really was feline in his enjoyment. As she pushed her fingers through the hair along the side of his head, he suddenly winced.

“Are you okay?” She stopped her movements.  

“I’m fine. But you were holding on rather tight,” he said.

Her lips parted as her abdomen convulsed. So that part had been real. She had actually grabbed his hair. And she guessed her efforts to impale herself on his tongue were probably also real. She broke eye contact, her face blood red. Avoiding the tender part of his scalp, she finished washing and conditioning his hair, not once looking at his eyes which seemed to never leave hers. Although he had mentioned it, his tone didn’t suggest that he was particularly concerned with the fact that she’d left him sore. But she was.

She’d hurt him to in the pursuit of her own gratification. How could that be alright? And yet he’d done the same to her. But he was under the influence of the curse. Did that make it okay? And maybe he would have done something like it anyway. He was a former Death-Eater after all.

She blinked rapidly, trying to clear her mind as she gently towel dried his hair. It was all too complicated. She was having trouble fitting everything into her black and white view of the world. It was becoming increasingly obvious that neither of them was black or white.

He watched closely as a feature film of emotions played out on her face. He was concerned that the one that seemed to emerge most was guilt. Although he had teased her, she had absolutely nothing to feel guilty about. He had welcomed the projection, encouraged it and, more than willingly, given himself to fulfil her desires. She needed her to know that.

And yet. She was now pouring what looked like some sort of oil into her cupped palm. He watched as she rubbed her glistening hands together before approaching him and grasping his wrist. Slowly, she slid her oily fingers beneath the binds. The skin there had become dry and red after days of rubbing and, carefully, she massaged the oil in, working her way around his wrist until the entire area was covered. Then she reapplied more to her palm but, rather than moving around to his other wrist, she grasped his large pale hand in her small ones.

Fuck! His large chest inflated as he sucked in the thick air between them. He’d never felt anything like it. Her warm, supple fingers pushed into the soft flesh of his palm, gliding along the crevices and squeezing apart the pockets of tension. She worked her way, methodically, over all of the small muscles, massaging around the humps and valleys of his knuckles, along the tender ridges of his tendons and rolling the delicate webbing between her fingertips. Then she started drawing her fingers slowly down the length of his long digits. She captured each one in her firm oily grasp and slid gradually down to the fingertip, grinding gently as she went.

His eyes rolled back in his head before they fell closed, a soft groan escaping his lips. What the fuck was she doing to him? He had no doubt she was trying to make up for his sore head. She certainly wasn’t holding back. Gods! And his cock, like an eager puppy, was up and ready to get in on the action.

She moved around to his other wrist and gave it the same treatment before thoroughly disarticulating every fibre of his hand, leaving it feeling like the centre of his entire body. He continued breathing through his mouth, unwilling to disturb the sensuous bliss that had taken hold of him.

Through the comfortable buzz in his head, he faintly heard her open the bottle again but didn’t think about what it might mean until he suddenly felt something wrap around his cock. His eyes flew open. His member had managed to slither out through the hole she had transfigured into his pyjama shorts and now she was dragging those deft hands up and down its length. Her face bore the same determined expression that had seen her make jelly out of his hands. Clearly, she felt responsible for the current state of his cock too and was preparing to atone. He should stop her. It wasn’t right.

But it felt soooo right! A groan emerged from deep in his throat as she used both hands to slide the oil from the base to the head of his immense dick, rubbing one palm over the bulbous end like she was polishing a doorknob.

From the depths of his lidded gaze, he watched the muscles in her elegant forearms working, her slick fingers squeezing and  the muscles in her jaw rippling faintly as she, no doubt, convinced herself that his release would simultaneously release her from the burden of her guilt. It wasn’t right.

“You don’t have to do this,” he ground out through gritted teeth, working hard to defy his body’s obvious preference to release the days of pent up come that were desperately trying to explode free.

She didn’t stop cranking his shaft as she looked up at him. “I know,” she said.

Despite the grimace that had seized his face, he managed to elevate a questioning eyebrow, telling her that he wasn’t convinced.

He saw her lift her chin in that familiar expression of defiance before she slowly bent down and lowered her hot mouth over the end of his weeping cock. With painful precision, she proceeded to suck him into another dimension.

“Uuuhhhh,” he cried out, gripping the rails with his oily hands.

She continued pumping his greasy pole with one hand as she slipped the other inside his shorts to fondle his weighty balls. Her tongue traced around and around the firm ridges of his head before probing insistently at the delicate hole as she continued to suck.

“Gods! I’m going to come!” he growled, thrusting his hips into her face, adding another layer of frenzied movement to her own.

He’d expected her to heed his warning, taking the opportunity to remove herself from the firing line. Instead, she drew back only slightly and squeezed his shuddering testicles as if to give the contents an extra push. Then she opened her mouth to him, pumping his spasming cock hard so he could watch his seed spurting up into her. After days of brewing and unfulfilled release, there was an inordinate amount of come but she didn’t pull away until she had milked the last drop from him, catching it on her, liberally coated, tongue. His deeply visceral groan was a mixture of relief and frustration as she closed her slick lips and swallowed.

Almost businesslike, she released his wilting member and picked up her wand, casting scourgify over him. As her wand hand came back to her side, he snatched at it, grabbing her firmly by the wrist.

She gasped as he pulled her toward him.

“You did nothing wrong,” he said, his black eyes locked upon hers.

She stared at him as her own eyes filled, nodding quickly as the tears began to fall.

“Listen to me.” His grasp tightened. “You did nothing wrong. You can’t take responsibility for everything. Do you understand?”

She shook her head as a sob broke from her chest. Tearing free, she ran.


	15. Chapter 15

Hermione didn’t stop running, even when she heard Ginny’s voice call out urgently behind her. She kept on until she reached the alcove near the library where Snape had attacked her. Diving into the shadowy recess, she hurriedly cast silence and concealment. Then she really let go. Curling against the unforgiving wall, she allowed it to suck the heat from her trembling body as she wailed. Great heaving sobs wracked her small frame as she clutched her arms to her chest. She wasn’t sure why she had decided to purge herself surrounded by the painful memories of Snape’s attack. There didn’t seem to be any logic to it. But then again, she’d been trying to deal with her deep emotional wounds rationally for years now and look how well that had worked.

Hermione cried because she couldn’t make amends. No matter what she did or how hard she tried, she would never be good enough. She would never be loved unconditionally by her greatest critic in the world. Herself. She could never forgive herself for not being perfect. The cracks in her ‘golden girl’ façade were cavernous. And the perfect storm of this past week had torn away great sheets of her glittering armour, revealing a seamy, sordid interior that terrified her.

She wasn’t perfect, she wasn’t even good. She was seriously flawed and if people knew, they would inevitably turn against her, as her own heart had. She was unlovable. Pure and simple. Even Ginny must be on the verge of giving up on her. She hadn’t spent time with Ron and Harry in months. No doubt, they were making preparations for life beyond Hogwarts which didn’t include being weighed down by her and her carelessly packed baggage.

And what about Severus Snape? The man who had mirrored her actions, tit for tat, this past week and uncovered it all—a dirty and chaotic excavation, an exhumation of all that was buried and rotting.

His words returned from her dream.

“Your secrets won’t remain hidden with me. I’ll find them. And expose them.”

Well he’d certainly done that. Or maybe she’d done it all herself. It had just been far easier to blame him—the former Death-Eater, the spy, the snake.

Worse was the fact that his own actions had been influenced, perhaps wholly, by the Galvanismus curse. What was her excuse? There wasn’t one apart from being totally fucked in the head and even that didn’t quite capture it. She was totally fucked in the heart too.

She hugged her knees to her chest and lay her thudding head upon them.

“And when I do, I have the power to make them alright. Only then you will feel . . . complete.”

His words. Again. From the dream. But they weren’t his words were they? They were hers. Reaching up from her subconscious.

What did it mean? That he could somehow accept her. Flawed Hermione. Broken Hermione. Warts and all?

He was her Professor. Her teacher. He was there to impart knowledge—a thin sliver of influence within an enormous tide of encounters, experiences, education and growth.

But had he been more than that? When she looked back upon her years at Hogwarts, she realised that he was front and centre in almost everything. She wondered why she hadn’t seen it before. His impact upon her had been substantial and, despite his volatility, she had relied upon his stoic dependability to anchor her, in fact all of them, throughout the many stormy years.

And now, as everything was falling apart, he was there again, shackled and vulnerable and only days beyond attempting to take his own life. Maybe her subconscious knew more than her conscious mind did. But she wasn’t ready to pin all her hopes to a dream just yet.

Drawing in a shuddering breath, she rubbed her face with her hands and stared with new eyes at the gloomy surroundings. She now understood that she had come here to tap into her depths of her pain—to take solace in facing and, perhaps even, accepting it. At least she knew that it wasn’t going to drag her under. Monsters hide in the dark. When the light had been turned on, they had been ugly, but at least she could now see them.  

Balancing on unsteady legs, she cast a glamour on her face to cover the red puffiness. It was unlikely she would be disturbed behind her fortress of books in the corner of the library but she needed, more than ever before, to clear her head. It was time to wholly dedicate herself to the monumental task of saving Severus Snape.

* * *

He wasn’t smiling the next morning. In fact, the dark hollows around his eyes, told her that he hadn’t slept much either. She knew she didn’t look any better, her hair in disarray and her face pale and drawn from pulling an all-nighter.

“Hermione, I think we need to talk.”

His penetrating voice and stare hit her simultaneously, knocking the air from her lungs. He had never called her Hermione before. It wasn’t his pronunciation that was the problem. For some ridiculous reason she hadn’t consider that he actually knew her first name. And when he said it, it seemed too personal, too intimate. Which was equally ridiculous after she had had his cock in her mouth only the day before.   

“Professor?” Her bottom lip subconsciously slipped between her teeth as she approached his bed.

He sighed. “I think we’ve moved beyond titles, don’t you?” he said. “It’s probably time that you started calling me Severus.”

She continued to look at him apprehensively.

“Pull up a seat,” he said gently, nodding at a nearby chair.

Hermione followed his instruction and found herself sitting with her chin a few inches above the bed rail, almost at eye height with him.

Unlike his normal habit of locking eyes with her, his shiny black orbs now edged across her features as if searching for hidden answers. The back of his hand rested against the rail, his thumb and ring fingers rubbing together—a digital extension of his thinking process.

He suddenly drew in a deep breath, as if resigning himself to a difficult course of conversation.

“I meant what I said yesterday.”

He paused. Allowing his words to sink in.

“You can’t keep blaming yourself for everything. You can’t make guilt your default response. It’s not healthy.”

Hermione’s breathing had become more laboured. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

“I should have tried harder to stop you yesterday,” he continued. “I didn’t because I . . . well clearly I enjoyed . . . “ He took another deep breath “. . . what was happening. Who wouldn’t want a beautiful girl . . .” He shook his head. “Anyway, I regret what happened and I want you to know that you don’t need to undertake any more of my personal care. I have made alternative arrangements.”

She blinked, trying to process his very un-Snape-like ramblings.

“Professor . . . Severus.” She leant her arms against the bar and propped her forehead on her fingers. She closed her eyes and proceeded to massage her temples, trying to assimilate the thoughts that were bubbling too far below the surface of her exhausted brain.

“You’re right,” she finally ground out. “I do blame myself. I do feel guilty. I don’t like myself very much. I’m not coping very well.” She continued speaking as her voice tightened and the tears started to fall. “I’m not the person I thought I was—hoped I was. I’ve done many things I regret. I worry that I’m beyond help. That . . . I’m beyond . . . forgiveness.” She wiped her nose quickly on her wrist. “I thought I could do things. Important things. Things that mattered. But, instead, I’ve become a fuck-up. And I’m only eighteen or nineteen or something.” She shook her head irritably. “And I know it’s wrong but I really enjoyed pulling your hair and coming on your face and I worry that I might be evil.”

Snape stared in shock at the sobbing mess before him. Her hair was a tumbleweed, her nose dripped like a faucet and yet she was the most beautiful thing he could imagine. She was so exposed. So raw. But, he couldn’t help it. Claiming to be evil for enjoying cunninglingus was more than he could take, especially after a sleepless night. And so he laughed. It started as a deep rumble in his chest and then erupted from him. His eyes were closed and his head tilted back into his pillow. It was as if he had been waiting for years to laugh and it came like a tidal wave.

Hermione was taken aback, mouth hanging open in surprise. She might have stormed out at his response, if he hadn’t suddenly grasped her hand in his and held it as tightly as he did. He was asking her to stay with him. He had no capacity to stop and holding her was the only apology he could give for his, no doubt, offensive behaviour.

As she watched him, Hermione found her own lips twisting up into a watery smile and, before she knew it, she had joined him. Laughing uncontrollably, even more tears rolling down her face. Together they laughed—raucous, uninhibited, cathartic—two voices at opposite ends of the spectrum but joyfully harmonic.

They laughed until they were spent—shuddering wrung-out vessels. Their breathing turned deep and calm, and they remained joined at the palms.

He smiled at her and shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

She returned the smile. “So you should be.”

He raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment.

After a few more deep breaths, his smile faded and his gaze deepened.

“When you came to my rooms. When you projected there. And you told me you forgave me. Did you mean it?”

She answered without hesitation. “Yes. It hurt. Still hurts. But, yes, I forgave you for what you did.”

He nodded solemnly. Then squeezed her hand.

“You need to forgive yourself now,” he said. “I can give you my forgiveness. And I will. I forgive you, Hermione. Any wrongs you feel you might have committed against me. I forgive. All of them. But now you need to forgive yourself.”

She stared down at the bar, blinking back the tears that threatened to fall again.

He shook her hand gently. “No one is perfect. Everyone is both good and bad. But we are far more than that. You, for example, are courageous, independent, defiant, caring, sweet, funny, infuriating, brilliant, hypercritical, sexy . . .” he caught himself and glanced away. “What I’m trying to say is that each supposed negative trait doesn’t negate a positive one. This isn’t a balancing act where good outweighs bad or vice versa. We are multi-faceted. We have many faces.”

“I know what multi-faceted means,” she murmured.

He snorted appreciatively.

“Like a diamond,” he said, shrugging at the sentimentality. “Many facets, all contributing to the whole.”

Hermione sighed, surprised at how much better she felt. “I feel more like a lump of coal but . . . I’m willing to consider it.”

That sat in companionable silence for a few moments longer.

Then her face suddenly grew solemn.

“There’s actually something else we need to talk about.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I think I might have come up with something . . . for the curse,” she spoke haltingly, as if unsure of how to phrase her thoughts. “I’ve read a lot. Both wizarding and Muggle books. I discovered early on that parasitic curses operate a lot like viruses. Some can have immediate effects but then reside dormant in the body tissues until re-activated. I have a hunch that the Galvanismus is similar to Varicella Zoster, the virus that causes Chickenpox and Shingles. Not in its action but in that there is a connection with the nervous system, possibly the sensory nerves.”

He was frowning deeply, concentrating on her every word.

“Anyway. That only helps a little in understanding its action. From the wizarding books it’s clear that the curse can only be passed on at the time of a willing death. If the death is unwilling, the curse will do everything to keep the body alive. As you know.” She took in a deep breath. “We only have a few more days to cure it and the process I have in mind is likely to take that long.”

She stopped and he nodded at her to continue.

“Severus, you are going to have to be taken to the brink of death to eliminate it.” Her forehead was creased with pain. “And you’re going to have to go there willingly.”

“And who will it be passed on to?” he said.

She stared at him. He was more concerned about who would be burdened with the curse than the fact that there was a high likelihood that he might die trying to get rid of it.

“Me,” she said. “My extracorporeal projection.”

He looked at her for a long time before giving a singular nod.

He trusted her completely. If she had had any tears left, they would have sprung from her eyes. Instead she lowered her forehead onto the bar.

His hand left hers and delved into her hair. Stroking it gently. He tenderly rubbed and massaged her scalp until her head rolled to the side. She was asleep. He watched as she breathed soft trails of fog across the metal of the bar and wondered at the cruelty of having to willingly give up his life, just when he had found a reason to live.


	16. Chapter 16

Hermione cinched her robes around her neck as an icy wind snaked through Knockturn Alley. Severus’ contact was late. Ignoring the lascivious leers from the endless procession of phantoms that stalked past, she busied herself with casting a warming charm and thinking about how much poison it was going to take to kill her Potions Professor.

They had settled upon Postleshade as the best option. It was quick and effective. But, she wondered now, would it be too quick and effective. She needed to take him to the brink, not push him over it. And if he did survive. How would he recover? Would the side-effects be severe enough for him to wish that she had actually escorted him over the threshold?

“I say. Sev must be doing alright to ‘ave pretty young ladies doin’ his biddin’.” A robed figure sidled up beside her.

Hermione ignored the insinuation. “Do you have it?”

“Course I ‘ave it.” The figure dropped his hood and Hermione immediately wished he hadn’t. A face more dead than alive ogled her with one bloodshot eye and one milky blind.

“My question is. How much do you wan’ it?”

His grin showed a muddy graveyard of teeth and his breath was so putrid that she immediately buried her nose beneath her robes.

“How much?” she said.

“Well!” his cockeyed grin broadened. “I don’ normally mix this business with that business. But for you darlin’—twenty five knuts and I’ll do you right ‘ere. An extra twenty five and I’ll do you up the arse too.”

He cackled with laughter but she could tell he wasn’t joking.

“Just think about touching me and I’ll hex your knuts . . . right . . . off.”

Her voice was low and even as she thrust her wand at his groin.

“Alrigh’, alrigh’. Keep yer hair on.” His bloodshot eye bulged. “Three galleons.”

It was more than Severus had paid for the previous bottle but she didn’t want to negotiate with the slimy worm or smell his rancid breath for a second longer.

She hurriedly rattled through her purse before holding the coins out to him. He handed her a small soiled sack and clutched at her hand, pulling the coins from her fingers. 

“Pleasure doin’ business with yer love.” He yanked her hand up, pressing it against his blistered lips.

She snatched it away with a growl of fury, wiping it on her cloak, before turning on her heel and apparating back to Hogwarts.

***

“You might have warned me!” She stormed into Severus’ room, throwing off her robe in an explosion of hair and curses.

“So you met the charming Mr Wiggins?” Severus chuckled as she strode into the bathroom and turned the taps on full.

“Charming?!” He heard her exclaim, before her voice was lost in a torrent of muttering, splashing and further curses.

She finally returned, hands red from scrubbing.

“Did he deliver?” Severus’ smile faded to a grim line.

Reaching into her purse, Hermione pulled out the sack and yanked the neck of it to reveal a small bottle, identical to the one she had smashed the night she had saved Severus’ life.

They stared at the bottle, sharing expressions of apprehension. When it came down to it. He was trusting her to poison him to death—or as close to it as he could get. Severus comforted himself with the thought that if she didn’t succeed, at least he wouldn’t know about it—he’d be dead. Hermione could take no comfort from her thoughts—it went against every instinct to make a healthy man deathly ill for his own good.

Severus took in her pale face and the tremble in her fingers. She was never going to be able to ask him to do it. He would have to do the asking.

“I guess there’s no time like the present,” he said quietly, looking into her brown eyes. “How much is the first dose?”

“Five millilitres,” she said. They had carefully planned the dosing regime, with the hope that they could attempt to exorcise the curse at around midnight.

 _Provided all goes well._ Thought Hermione bitterly.

“Can you please give me five millilitres of the poison, Hermione,” he said, his face carefully masking the surge of fear that had captured his vital organs.

It was important for her to be left with no uncertainty that she was following his instructions. If things went wrong, and there was a high likelihood that they would, he didn’t want her blaming herself—thinking she had forced him into it.

Sighing heavily, Hermione picked up the graduated dropper that she had collected from the glassware shelf in Severus’ store room earlier in the day. It would allow her to make the doses as accurate as possible, while she monitored his vital signs to map his deterioration. With shaking fingers, she removed the stopper from the bottle and used the dropper to draw up five millilitres of the yellowish liquid.

When she held it ready, she suddenly shook her head. “It feels so wrong to be giving you poison like this.”

“You haven’t always had trouble putting things in my mouth,” he said, a mischievous spark dancing in his dark eyes.

Hermione pursed her lips as she flushed scarlet, propping an indignant hand on her hip.

“So you’re asking for the whole bottle are you?”

A low chuckle rumbled deep in his chest as his broad shoulders bounced gently against the pillow.

She tried to smile but her face contorted in pain as she realised just how sexy he looked with his boyish grin and mussed up hair.

“See you on the other side, Severus,” she whispered, agony shooting through her core.

He gave a slow nod, which held all the gallantry of a bow. “Indeed.”

She wondered if that word would be his last.

***

Hermione counted her stockpile of healing and blood cleansing potions for the thousandth time. She had worked out a meticulous administration regime to maximise his chances of a successful recovery and wanted to be sure that everything was ready. Madam Pomfrey had agreed to administer the regime if something happened to her, and now there was nothing left to do but watch him die.

After the first administration, he had rapidly developed a fever, a sheen of perspiration coating his body. She had unbuttoned his clinging pyjamas to provide a little relief but then the muscle spasms had begun and his galloping pulse could be seen fluttering at his throat.

As difficult as it was, she continued administering the poison by inserting the dropper into the corner of his mouth. She couldn’t back out now. Not after he had been brave enough to commit to the plan. Tears prickled her eyes as a thread of saliva trickled down his chin and his breathing became more and more laboured.

She suddenly buried her face in her hands, unable to watch him in such distress. What had she done? Surely he could have lived on with the Galvanismus? Maybe they could have developed a management plan instead. She knew that the effects of the curse seemed to abate after he came. Could that have been the solution? Constant sex?  She could have helped with that. If he didn’t already have someone else in mind that is.

But she knew that Professor McGonagall would never allow him to stay at Hogwarts if the curse remained and that he would be at its mercy for the rest of his life. Neither option was good for him.

Brushing away the tears that were falling down her cheeks, she checked her watch—11pm. He was getting close. His spasms had turned into convulsions and they ravaged his body mercilessly. She grabbed his shackled hand and held it tightly as his face contorted and his lips shook free droplets of bloody saliva.

She remained clutching his hand as the minutes ticked away and his breathing turned raspy. His body was shutting down. Rubbing her thumb back and forth across his knuckles, she stood mesmerised by his chest—the beautiful curvature of his muscles, belying the failing organs beneath. Like watching waves surging and receding on a beach, his breathing became slower and slower. As if the whole world was grinding to a halt.

Suddenly a gasp exploded from him. She’d taken him too far!

But it wasn’t his final breath. It was his final attempt to cling on to life. His eyes opened and she could see him trying to focus on her as the blue sparks of the curse leapt about in their depths.

“Herm . . . ione? . . . “ His voice dropped like a falling breeze.

“I’m here, Severus.” She squeezed his hand.

“Hermione,” he ground out as a trickle of blood breached his lips. “Tell . . . me. Do . . . we . . . have . . . a . . . have . . . a . . . future . . . together.”

She clapped a hand over her mouth to stop the sob escaping. This was all that was stopping him from willingly going to his death. The chance that they might be together. If he was going to oust the curse, he couldn’t harbour any such hopes. And so her heart broke.

“No Severus,” she said, rivers of tears coursing down her cheeks. “We won’t be together. Ever.”

His eyes slipped closed and he gave the faintest of nods. He was ready to leave. With no reason to stay, his body seemed to lighten, taking on an ethereal quality as if he were already gone.

Hermione released his hand and ran. She sprinted out the door into a second isolation room where she tore the stopper off her final extracorporeal projection potion and gulped it down. The projection left her immediately and she hastened it back to his room, zooming in close to his face where she used it to stroke his sunken cheek.

“Open your eyes Severus,” she murmured urgently, pacing the room.

She had worked out that, since the retina was the only visible part of the nervous system, the only way the curse could escape him was through his eyes. If he didn’t open his eyes, there would be no portal of exit.

“Severus . . . you have to open your eyes.” Her voice grew tight, as she realised the fatal flaw in their plan.

“Oh fuck no, Severus!” she cried, rubbing his cheek harder. “Let it out, Severus. You have to let it out!”

But he didn’t respond. He was as good as dead.

“Severus!” she choked, holding his face in her hands.

Then she lowered her mouth to his and captured his lips with hers. As she pressed her soft warmth to him she saw, through the milky haze, his eyelids ease open. His dark orbs were no longer visible, criss-crossed, instead, by a violent mass of electric blue bolts. As she held his gaze, she saw the curse surge like lightning out of him, exploding in her brain.

She was unconscious before she hit the floor.


	17. Chapter 17

Hermione wasn’t fooled by the pretty kaleidoscope of lights that danced on the ceiling directly above her head. Everything was wrong. The room was wrong. The sounds were wrong. The light was wrong. Her head feeling like a cracked egg was definitely wrong. And where was Severus?

She tried sitting up too quickly and the nausea surged, her gravelly throat constricting as she attempted to swallow. She was so desperately thirsty. Her slitted gaze took in the stark whiteness of the walls. It was the infirmary. She was in one of the isolation rooms—isolated.

What had happened? Her memories were scattered and seemed to be actively resisting her attempts to impose order. She slowly dragged an arm out from under the covers. Not only did her limbs feel like they were moving through custard but she had been firmly cocooned in multiple layers of starched white sheets—a definite sign that Madam Pomfrey had been tending to her.

Where was Severus? She rubbed her eyes and her fingers ran into an unfamiliar gauzy wrapping, before trailing further over the lumpy pad of a head dressing. She couldn’t remember hitting her head. When had she done that? Frowning, she squinted out the window at the fans of golden sunlight that framed the distant trees—it was morning. How was it morning already? Her swimming thoughts coalesced momentarily and she remembered something. A different light. A blueish light of some sort. Like lightning but . . .

It hit her with a jolt. _The curse! Severus! The poison! He was dying. Was he dead? Did he die? Shit!_

She kicked frantically at the suffocating sheets, trying to pull free. _Let me fucking go!_

Shrieking in frustration, she finally disentangled herself and slipped down onto the icy floor.  

Her stiff hospital gown bulged around her like a malformed marshmallow, as she wobbled unsteadily toward the door. It seemed to take an eternity, her numb toes not helping in the least. With a final lurch, she fell heavily against the dark wood, sucking in air to try to still her spinning head and quell the nausea that had risen to her throat. She waited a few moments until she felt marginally better before turning the handle and stepping out. Severus’ room was next door. The door was closed.

Her hand shook as she reached toward the handle. _No, no, no, no, no._ Her mind was a constant loop of denial. She grasped the cold metal and turned.

Never before had she been more relieved to see Madam Pomfrey’s scowl.

“Hermione. You shouldn’t be up!”

The mediwitch stood from where she had been holding a cloth to Severus’ brow and walked briskly over to put an arm around Hermione.

“You had a bad fall. You need rest. Not to be tottering around like a newborn deer.”

But Hermione wasn’t listening, she was focused intently on the pale form lying in the bed.

“Is he . . .”

Madam Pomfrey sighed, not because it was a silly question—he had been as close to death as she had ever seen a man—but because she had found that feigned irritability was a good antidote to overwhelming emotions, which often caused more damage to her patients than physical injuries.

“He’s alive,” she said, guiding Hermione slowly toward the bed.

“I administered the healing potions and blood cleansers throughout the night. He’s stable now. Hopefully out of danger. But he has a lot of healing to do. And of course, who knows what sort of permanent damage there might be. Only time will tell.”

Hermione’s eyes didn’t leave him as she forged on, finally grasping the bar and leaning on it to look at him. His face had aged ten years. The poison had ravaged him and left him barely living. A shell.

She felt so guilt ridden that she wanted to turn from his ruined body and run away. To pretend that the whole thing had been some horrific dream. But running was out of the question—both physically and emotionally. She wasn’t very good at pretending. She had no choice but to face up to what had happened. To what she had been part of. And seeing him here in front of her was the most tangible reminder she could have.  

“Madam Pomfrey, can you please bring my bed in here. I need to watch him recover.”

The mediwitch was prepared with a sigh but the look on Hermione’s face told her it wouldn’t even be heard.

She squeezed the fragile girl’s shoulder gently before leaving the room.

“Severus,” Hermione whispered, grasping his limp hand in hers. “I didn’t mean it when I told you we had no future together. I had to say it, otherwise the curse would have remained with you and the whole thing would have been for nothing. It broke my heart to say it. Please believe me. I trust that you accept me as I am. All those things in me that I can’t even accept myself. And you do make me feel complete. I think we could be good together. I have learnt a lot about myself in this last couple of weeks and, even with the curse, I was willing to accept you. Perhaps, once all this is over, we can get to know each other properly. We might even grow together. Heal together. I know I’m willing to try.”

She smoothed his hair back with one hand and half expected him to nuzzle into her. He loved to be nurtured, even if he would never admit it. But he remained motionless. For now, she just needed to be grateful that he was alive. It would do her no good to expect anything more.   

Madam Pomfrey returned, wheeling the bed, and placed it parallel to his so Hermione could lie and watch him. And this is how she spent the next day and a half. Dozing on and off. Dreaming of him in between. Watching for signs of recovery as Madam Pomfrey floated in and out, administering potion after potion.

She reached the point where she had recovered sufficiently to be able to leave the infirmary herself, the only visible reminder of her role in the exorcism, a peppering of red grazes on her forehead.

When her bed was removed from his room, she pulled up a chair and continued to watch. She left him only once to gather a bag of clean clothes, books and toiletries. A second brief departure was when she enjoyed the most heavenly shower in his bathroom after days of lying in bed. Even her meals were brought in by the house-elves, allowing her to spend every moment with him.    

But the time she looked most forward to was immediately after Madam Pomfrey completed her rounds, when she would crawl up onto his bed and lie next to him. She didn’t want to place any extra burden on his over-taxed body so she lay by his side, just beneath his arm-pit, curled up. There she would read, write or just doze—feeling, rather than watching, his recovery. Her whole body was tuned in to him and she could sense his gradual improvement.

It was at the end of the third day, when she was lying next to him reading a book about combined charms that she felt a strange tickle in her hair. She absent-mindedly brushed it away as she continued to read. It came again, more insistently, and she reached up quickly, wondering if some bug was hoping to use her curls as a nest. But it wasn’t a bug. It was a warm, soft hand, stroking her gently.

She squeaked and rolled over, his face contorting as she accidentally elbowed him in the ribs.

“Severus!”

His eyes remained closed but the ghost of a smile curled the corner of his lips.

“Oh Gods! Severus!”

She slid up on her knees so she could lean in closer to him. His eyebrows twitched slightly and the muscles in his jaw flexed as he seemed to be trying to communicate. Placing a trembling hand on his cheek, she gave a tearful smile.

“I'm so glad you’re back,” she murmured, stroking him gently.

He groaned and pulled feebly against his binds, clearly forgetting that he was still shackled in his bed. She reached out for his hand so he didn’t need to move.

“I missed you.”

He squeezed her hand gently in return, holding it for a moment before his head fell to the side and he lost consciousness again.

She was so relieved and grateful that she sat stroking him, smiling at the steady rise and fall of his chest. He was going to be alright. She hoped to God that he wouldn’t suffer any permanent losses. She wanted him to be the same. The Snape that she had come to know over the past days. Although, admittedly, she wasn’t confident which parts of his personality were influenced by the curse and which parts were native Snape. But, most of all, she hoped that the curse would be gone.

Hermione remained with him, like an unusually attentive cat, even through Madam Pomfrey’s rounds, where the older woman worked methodically around her. She had watched Hermione’s progressive migration toward her patient over the preceding days and decided that it was the best thing for both of them.   

Hours later, Hermione was lying on her back next to him, one leg crossed over the other, a wizarding crossword against her knee, when he suddenly cleared his throat. She jumped and twisted around and was shocked to see his eyes were open, a sleepy smile on his lips.

Hermione could only smile in return.

“So you’ve taken to sharing my bed have you?” His gravelly voice rumbled up from the depths of his lungs.

Hermione’s grin grew. This was a good sign. A bit of teasing. That was definitely classic Snape.

“Well your company has been less than stimulating,” she rolled onto her stomach. “So it was safer to lie here than to fall asleep standing up.”

What started as a rolling chuckle ended as a hacking cough that made him wince with pain.  

“I’m sorry Severus,” she leapt up with concern. “I won’t make you laugh again.”

He shook his head, waving a shackled hand up and down, as he waited for his coughing to recede. “I need you to make me laugh,” he finally ground out. “I feel like shit.”

Hermione giggled and nestled herself closer to him.

They remained looking at one another. There were so many things that needed to be said. But it was all too big at that moment.

“What are you reading?” he gestured to the book in her lap. It was as safe a topic as he could have chosen.

“Oh, it’s just a Wizarding crossword,” she curled a stray lock of hair behind her ear, glancing down at it with some embarrassment.

“Give me one of the clues,” he said.

She looked at him curiously. Maybe he was also wondering how much the poison might have impacted him. Was this a test?

She folded the crossword and peered at the parts she had already completed.

“Actually,” she said. “I’m pretty sure a close friend of yours is the answer to one of these. L, something, something, K, H, something, something, T. It’s got to be LOCKHART.”

“As in Gilderoy?”

“Yep. The very same.”

A trademark sneer appeared on his face and she couldn’t have been happier to see it.

“What’s the clue?” he asked. “Anagram of Knut?”

It took Hermione a few seconds before she exploded with laughter. She even forgave the poor spelling.

He was back. He was snarky. And he was perfect.

With any luck he would also be hers.


	18. Chapter 18

Hermione’s reflection stared back at her. It didn’t look particularly happy. The graze on her head had healed amazingly well and the skin around her eyes looked fresh despite her broken sleep. But none of that mattered—she’d just met with Professor McGonagall.

Hermione had entered the meeting naively hoping that the Headmistress would simply hand over the release phrase for Severus’ shackles, finally allowing him to be relieved of his immeasurable discomfort. But the phrase was given over with a condition that Hermione was desperately concerned would devastate him—and destroy any possible chance of a relationship between them. In reality, the stipulation shouldn’t have been a huge surprise. But she had been so focused on his recovery that she’d pushed the possibility, well and truly, to the back of her mind.

Severus was so much better—healthy enough to be released from the infirmary after a surprisingly rapid recovery. And they were already days over their original deadline for removal of the curse. So, for Hermione, things felt like they were now coming to a huge, festering head.

The Headmistress had made Hermione promise that she would provide unequivocal evidence that Severus was, indeed, free from the Galvanismus curse. The fact that all of the past episodes in which the curse had been expressed were characterised by extreme emotional and sensory upheaval, and had built up over the course of days, made it an almost impossible proposition.

Even if she was successful, it was going to hurt him. A lot.

Hermione’s reflection continued to frown. She could hear his deep timbre in the adjoining room, intermingled with the milder tones of Madam Pomfrey. Not only had they repaired their relationship over the preceding days, the mediwitch was now treating him like her long lost son—fussing over his meals and doing everything in her power to make him as comfortable as possible.

Closing her eyes, Hermione leant on the basin and stretched her neck repeatedly from side to side. Then she took five long slow breaths. It seemed entirely inadequate but how else did one prepare to instigate a colossal shit storm?

She knew that if the curse was still hiding somewhere inside him, she would need to overwhelm both his senses and emotions. Humiliation was a particular pressure point for him. To incite the curse, she needed to trawl the depths of her malice—perhaps even dredge up the pain and humiliation of the rape he had perpetrated against her. She would have to use every vindictive device at her disposal. Otherwise, he would be out of Hogwarts and, more importantly, neither of them could ever be sure that he was finally free from the curse.

When she finally returned to the bedroom he was alone, watching the fading light of dusk out the window. She approached hesitantly and grasped the bar at his bedside.

“I can help you with that if you like,” he said, stretching his binds to hold her hand.

It was only then that she realised she had been biting on her lip. She released it and sighed heavily.

“Something wrong?” He frowned, rubbing the back of her hand with his thumb.

“Do you trust me Severus?”

She said it with such intensity that his eyebrows shot up.

“Of course. Why?”

“Because I’m going to have to do something . . . to you.” She tightened her grip on him. “It’s something very important but I can’t tell you anything about it beforehand. You are just going to have to trust me. It might get . . . very . . . uncomfortable. I’m going to be talking to you, asking you questions but I don’t want you to speak. I just want you to listen.”

His frown deepened with every word.

“I’m really, really, sorry but it has to be done.”

He shook his head slightly in wonder before releasing her hand. “And when is this to happen?”

Hermione drew in a shaky breath. “Now.”

He stared at her, into her, and she thought she might be sick. This was going to be far worse even than the poisoning. Because he would be fully aware. Hyper-aware. Her hand tapped nervously on the bar.

His beautiful black orbs drifted over her face. “You haven’t let me down yet,” he said. “I do trust you.”

She closed her eyes against the pain of his openness. She was about to let him down. Big time. But she had no choice. The only mercy she could show was to get it over with quickly, rather than drawing out his agony.

A mask of detachment dropped over her face, her features hardening. She instantly pulled back from him—physically, mentally and emotionally, drawing her wand. With quick successive flicks she locked and warded the door, dropped heavy drapes over the windows and shot flames onto the dozens of candles propped in candelabras around the room.

Severus’ eyes darted about. Capturing each of her lightning fast movements. This was a Hermione he’d not seen for some time. She was reminiscent of the wild, unpredictable girl he’d seen when this whole thing had begun. It was disconcerting to say the least. But he needed to trust her. He had no choice. He was completely at her mercy. And, to be honest, it was impossible to deny his feelings for her.

The final flick of her wand was to remove his pyjamas—that soft, nurturing fabric that had become his security blanket throughout his time in the infirmary. Now he was completely naked. Shackled. And totally vulnerable.

She didn’t flinch. Levitating the bottle of oil from her bag, she placed her wand on a chair and poured the fluid liberally over her hands, rubbing them together like a surgeon scrubbing up. Wordlessly, she reached for his flaccid cock, gently rolling her oiled fingers over his silken sheath.

His shoulders tensed and his Adam’s apple bobbed, forcing back the words that were desperately trying to explode free. What was she doing? . . . Oh Gods!

He felt her strong hands gliding up and down his considerable length, and watched as his cock rapidly inflated under her ministrations. She handled him like a sculptor, an artisan, shellacking his member in a glistening film that shone golden in the candlelight.

His breathing quickened as her lithe fingers slithered down to his scrotum, an alchemist turning his nuggets into gold.

She didn’t look at his face once, utterly focused on her craft, and he was struck by the strange sense that she was barely there.

She established a rhythm quickly, her fingers sliding in smooth, pulsatile waves. He groaned deeply in response and shifted his backside sideways, trying to control the sensations.  

It was rapidly becoming too much for him. His chest was heaving and his mouth was drawn up tightly at the corners. He closed his eyes as she quickened her pace, taking in shallow breaths through his mouth.

Just as he felt the tension building in his balls, she suddenly stopped.

When he opened his eyes, she was looking intently at him. It was her but not her.

“Did Lily Evans ever get to see this?” she asked, stroking him agonizingly slowly.  

_What the Fuck?_

“Is that why she rejected you?” She continued sliding her hand up and down him, keeping him right on the edge.

Severus clenched his jaw and glared at her. No one had ever dared ask him about his relationship with Lily. That was fucking private.

“I bet you were angry with her.” Hermione continued. “You were never quite good enough were you? You could never offer her what James Potter and his friends could.”

His fists clenched. His eyes were black ice.

She reached down, manipulating his balls with one hand as she continued pumping him.

“Did you ever fantasize about raping her like you did to me?”

Severus’ face broke, contorting with pain as his breath caught in his chest.

She looked away from him. Trying to regain her composure. She needed him to buy it. All of it. Otherwise it couldn’t work.

With difficulty, she reinstated her façade and returned his gaze.

“Did you ever imagine grabbing her by her beautiful red hair, looking into those green eyes filled with anger and hurt, and trying to shove your cock in her mouth?”

Severus shook his head, his eyes shuttered.

“What would she have done Severus? What would Lily have done if you tried to force this cock into her?”

His eyes closed as a sob died in his throat.

Hermione lowered her mouth over the head of his dick and sucked on his firm flesh. His groan was one of anguish, not pleasure, as she grazed him with her teeth. She quickened her pace, bringing him back, teetering on the edge of release with her swirling, probing tongue.

As an enraged growl emerged from deep in his throat, she pulled away again.

“Would you have made her swallow your come? Like you did to me?”

He could take no more. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone!“ he shouted, his face blood-red.

His entire body glistened with sweat, veins bulging in his arms and chest as he strained against the shackles. He looked like a wild animal.

It was time.

Hermione picked up her wand.

“Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,” she murmured.

Suddenly, the shackles binding his wrists fell away.

Letting her wand clatter to the floor, she closed her eyes, shuddering with fear. If he was still cursed, he would be ready to hurt her, badly. If not, he would reject her. Either way, she was didn’t want to see it coming.

Strong arms grabbed her and dragged her, bodily, onto the bed. She felt herself being crushed into his chest.

“Thank you, Hermione,” he whispered hoarsely into her hair.

She sobbed into his bare skin, his scent and warmth feeling like home. He rocked her gently, pressing his lips to her forehead.

“It worked, Hermione,” he murmured against her skin. “You did it.”

Relief turned her bones to jelly. She wanted to stay there, cocooned in his embrace, forever.

“I’m so sorry Severus,” she finally ground out, his chest hair tickling her swollen face.

“Shhhhh,” he continued rocking her. “I know you are.”

She clung to him like a wet limpet.

“I suspect it was a condition of my release?” he ducked his head closer to her ear.

She nodded against him, digging her fingers desperately into the muscles of his shoulder to reinforce the truth of it.

“At least they’ll know I’m clean now,” he muttered. “And, more importantly, so will you.”

She gave a deep sigh, daring to allow a small hopeful smile to curve her lips. “And so will you.”

He squeezed her closer and, as she raised her chin to nuzzle into him, he lowered his head, capturing her plump lips with his firm ones. It hit her like the Hogwarts Express. After all this time. Everything they had been through. This was their first proper kiss. Not like the one through the extracorporeal projection when he was on the verge of death. This was what she had wanted all along. A real kiss for no other reason than they both wanted to—needed to.

His lips parted and his tongue trailed along the soft crevice between hers, ripe and full. She opened up to him and he plunged in. That tongue that had been everywhere else in her was finally inside the succulent warmth of her mouth. She sucked it gently and slithered hers up beside it. Entering him, tasting him, devouring him.

They continued exploring one another until Hermione became intimately aware of an insistent prodding at her hip. He still had a raging erection. Her joy and relief and arousal made her suddenly desperate not to waste it.

“Do you mind if I . . . “ She reached down and gently ran a finger along his silky smooth member.

His lips curled into a smile. “Be my guest.”

He responded as if she had simply asked to borrow a book. But she wasn’t going to wait for a second invitation.

Straddling him, she started peeling off layers of clothing. One after another. Stretching gracefully above him like a ballet dancer, until she was down to a creamy lace bra. Without waiting, she unhooked it from behind and shrugged it off her smooth shoulders. To Severus, the firm breasts that swayed above him had all the silky allure of a caramel dessert. Then she stood to peel off her jeans, socks and, finally, her sodden knickers, kicking the pile off his bed before kneeling down with one leg either side of his hips.

Severus had never beheld anything so beautiful. The flickering candlelight played across her perfect skin, the curves of her beautiful breasts and the flat plane of her stomach. He desperately wanted to run his hands all over her but he didn’t want to interfere. He felt strongly that she needed to do this on her terms. It was for her. And she absolutely fucking deserved it. She had saved him. And he would provide for her, as long as she needed. He wouldn’t come, even if he had to clamp his own cock. It was the least he could do for her.

She raised herself on muscular thighs and reached between her legs for his cock which was still standing very much to attention. Positioning his weeping head at her entrance, she gradually lowered herself down, only just managing to accommodate his initial bulbous nub. She stopped and reached out for him. He held her small hands in his large ones. Her face held all the innocent uncertainty of a child learning to fly their first broomstick, and he was there to support her.

Clamping her bottom lip between her teeth, she raised her pelvis up and slid back down, a little further this time. For Severus it was absolutely exquisite, being swallowed up, bit by bit, into her deliciously wet heat.  

She kept rocking slowly, letting her over-stretched sheath adjust to his size, until the final downward journey when she gave a deep satisfied groan like she was lowering herself into a luxuriously warm bath, rather than impaling herself on his immense dick, and his heart filled with love.

Immediately she started gliding up and down him, he knew he had been right. Her eyes were closed and she seemed to be in an alternative rapturous universe. One of her hands went to her erect nipple as the other slid down her stomach, through her cropped pubic hair, slotting between her engorged folds.

He placed his hands on either side of her abdomen, allowing her to slide through them. As a young man he’d been fortunate enough to witness the birth of a Unicorn foal in the Forbidden Forest. It had been having difficulty, so he had helped it to stand. When he touched its coat, it was like nothing he had ever felt before, impossibly soft, warm and pulsing with magic. And that’s what he felt now as Hermione’s skin ran through his palms.

Her face was turned toward the ceiling and she moaned with pleasure as she rolled her nipple languorously between slightly oily fingers. Her other hand rubbed rhythmically at her clitoris as she increased her speed on his cock, tilting her pelvis to rock backwards and forwards, as well as up and down.

His body had never felt more like coming, or his mind been more determined not to. She was so slender that he was sure that his hands could easily meet around her waist and it wasn’t a stretch to imagine that one of the biggest organs inside her at that moment was probably his. The way her muscles clenched around him, squeezing him, milking him, needing him, he felt more useful, more wanted than he ever had in his life. And when she opened her eyes to gaze down at him, her mouth hanging open with lust, and reached out to grasp his wrists, both arms locked in the unbreakable vow, he knew that he was hers.

He growled deep in his throat and clenched his jaw, willing the wild storm building in his balls to abate. Just for a few . . . seconds . . . longer. Her channel was excruciatingly tight around him and making delicious sucking sounds as it devoured his cock. She was panting as she grasped his wrists tighter, the pressure inside her building to explosive proportions.

“Unnnhhhhh.” Her eyelids fluttered in unison with the fluttering of her abdominal muscles, which then recruited deeper and deeper muscles until her entire core shattered.

She cried out as wave after wave of contractions squeezed around the rigid pole buried deep inside her. Her body couldn’t hold that much internally and she squirted her release down him like topping poured over vanilla ice-cream.

She continued to shudder, her breasts heaving with each ragged breath, riding through the tics and aftershocks that twitched the hair-trigger muscles of her engorged canal.

And when they were over, she almost laughed as her swimming vision finally focused on his face. He was biting his bottom lip. Smiling. She didn’t think he had come. And she suspected it had been on purpose. He was gorgeous. She collapsed onto him, his cock still inside her. And promptly fell asleep.


	19. Chapter 19

Hermione dreamt she was on a flying carpet, undulating gently in the breeze as she soared high above Hogwarts. Far below, she could see Harry and Ron crossing the lawn to Hagrid’s hut. She called out to them but they didn’t hear her. She was too far away. She tried to swoop lower by leaning forward, gripping the front edge and pushing it down. It seemed a logical way to control the carpet, but it responded by grunting and grabbing her by the wrists.

She woke with a start. She had a fistful of Severus’ fine chest hair in each hand and he was wincing in pain, his hands gripping hers.

“Oh shit, sorry!” She hurriedly let him go, gulping in embarrassment.

He didn’t seem at all concerned. “You were calling out in your sleep to those two dunderheads, Potter and Weasley,” he smirked. “I presume that the hair pulling was in order to bang their heads together?”

She smiled despite herself. At some point she was going to have to stop him referring to her good friends in such a way but for now she was just happy to be there, lying on his fuzzy chest, his swollen cock inside her. She couldn’t quite fathom how that had happened unless he’d slipped it in unnoticed, which seemed very unlikely, since his cock wasn’t something that could be secreted inconspicuously. It was the most conspicuous phallus she’d ever seen. The alternative was that it had been buried in her the entire time she’d slept, which meant that it must have remained erect, or close to.

 _The poor unfulfilled darling,_ she thought, pushing the hair back from his face with one hand, he really did deserve some relief. 

Giving him a lascivious grin, she propped herself on her outstretched arms and slowly ground her pubic bone into him, squeezing the muscles of her pelvic floor. His chest reared up, releasing a low groan as he pushed back into his pillow.

This time he didn’t wait to be invited before reaching up to cup the smooth flesh of her tantalizing breasts. His gallantry only stretched so far. There’d be no holding back now.   

Hermione continued to work him over with precise and controlled movements of her muscles. Those years of horse riding hadn’t just been good for her thighs. He lifted his chin to look at her, manipulating her nipples between his skilful fingers. Her breath hitched and her pace faltered. She swallowed before continuing. Capturing her with his penetrating stare, he brought the index and middle fingers of one hand to his mouth and licked them generously with his dripping tongue before returning them to her nipple. Repeating the same procedure with his other hand, he made a triangle out of his fingertips and thumb, proceeding to digitally ‘suck’ on the engorged buds.

“Oh Merlin’s fucking . . . balls,” she groaned, her head falling loose on her neck. “You win.”

He chuckled darkly.

“Just take me however you like.” Her eyes were pleading with him.

In one movement, he sat and pulled her legs around him before flipping her onto her back. Her eyes widened at the speed with which she now found herself lying on his pillow, his face only millimetres from hers.

Then he repaid the favour. His movements, although agonizingly slow, managed to hit every hidden bundle of nerves inside her. Her breath came out in grunts as he tripped each one. How was he doing this?

And to make the experience even more intense, if that was possible, his bottomless gaze simultaneously drilled into her, reaming her brain. She realised that the intensity didn’t come from feeling invaded, however—it was more akin to a non-magical legilimency, driven by his desire to see her deeply. She had never felt closer to anyone in her life.

When he lowered his lips to hers, she immediately opened to him, licking and sucking, trying to draw him deeper into her. He groaned into her mouth, his adrenaline flaring in response to her blatant desire. As his thrusts grew faster and deeper, he bottomed out inside her, jolting her engorged clitoris.

The aching tension in her core became overwhelming and her breathing turned ragged. He responded by leaning back and lifting one of her legs over his shoulder. The new angle drove the firm ridges of his cock into the sensitive parts of her walls, while he used his thumb to deftly massage the shaft of her clitoris by rubbing on the hood. _Oh Gods! He knew too much!_

She clutched at his forearms, feeling the muscles there working up to a frenzied pace. Her whole body coiled in, ready to erupt. And then it did. Her moans turned into cries as the muscles of her legs started shuddering out of control. He clamped the one over his shoulder in place, continuing to drive into her as her entire pelvis exploded into seismic convulsions.

His form broke apart with the violence of her release, his balls twitching and shuddering as he pumped her full of his come, each thrust injecting it deeper into her body. He grunted as his balls finally emptied their last squirt into her spasming channel. Letting his arms collapse, he rolled to the side and scooped her exhausted body toward him. 

Their hearts thundered together as their laboured breathing gradually subsided. She felt his breaths grow deep and rhythmic and heard the soft susurration of air through his nose. He was asleep.

“Thank you Severus,” she whispered, before falling into her own deep sleep, blissfully contented.

***

Hermione hugged her knees to her chest as she stared at the leaden sky outside her window. She had left Severus only a few hours before but she was already missing him. The pile of text books on her desk looked particularly unappealing. Her studies had taken a back seat to the drama of the past couple of weeks and, for some reason, reading about blast-ended skrewts and grindylows felt a little pointless. But her N.E.W.T.s would be coming up quickly and she needed to perform as well as she could. She owed it to herself after so many years of hard work.

Her eyes were drawn back to the window. He had taken her again on the hospital bed that morning and she was still feeling pleasantly fulfilled. Not only that, but she had managed to catch up with Ginny after returning to her room in Gryffindor and had apologised for her behaviour over the past days, weeks, months. Ginny, being Ginny, wouldn’t hear of it. They had shared a tight hug and her heart felt lighter again. On top of that, Harry had owled her to ask if she wanted to catch up after lunch for a walk by the lake.

It felt like her life was a barren desert that had suddenly exploded in a sea of glorious blooms. She didn’t know how long it would last, but intended to make the most of it—everything that was on offer.

There was a sudden movement out the corner of her eye. Her quill twitched and then rose up, levitating in front of her. She frowned as it dipped down to the ink pot and then came to rest with its tip on the blank parchment she had prepared for note-taking.

_Dear Hermione_

Severus’ flowing script appeared before her. She looked skyward, grinning uncontrollably, quite unable to believe that he had wasted a projection potion to come into her room and write her a letter.

_Why aren’t you working?_

_By the smile on your face, I will presume it’s because you are thinking of me. I am thinking of you too so it’s a good job I don’t need two hands to write._

Her mouth dropped open. That was dirty!

_It probably would have been easier to send this letter by owl but I wanted to see you and unless said owl could communicate how you look effectively enough for my needs, it wasn’t going to be sufficient. Also, I don’t believe that there is an Owlish word for ‘nipple’._

A shriek of laughter escaped her and she clamped a hand over her mouth. Who was this Snape? Had the exiting curse somehow managed to bore through a hidden well of humour inside him?

_The reason I am writing is that if my seed is anything like me, it will be trying to bury itself as deeply within you as possible. And whilst your eggs, if they are anything like you, will be looking to resist—perhaps through some sort of grumpy exterior or even a barrier of bushy hair, the sheer weight of numbers is likely to overwhelm . . ._

_What I’m trying to say is that I have brewed you a contraceptive potion and it would be convenient for you to collect it from my potions laboratory at 5pm this afternoon._

_Yours,_

_Severus_

_P.S. You are beautiful when you blush_

She suddenly felt his warm soft lips upon hers. They surged against her in what was the briefest of passionate exchanges before he was gone.

Hermione hugged herself even tighter, trailing her fingertips lightly over her lips, remembering the feel of him. He was so full of surprises. She was going to enjoy getting to know him. The real Severus.

***

She could see Harry sitting on the grass by the lake as she approached. It wasn’t cold but a brisk breeze blew and she was glad she’d worn a jacket. Harry leapt up when he saw her.

“Mione!” he wrapped her in a warm embrace and she returned it, squeezing harder than she’d intended to.

“Hey, steady on there, I’ve just eaten you know,” he grinned at her.

“Yes, sorry about lunch.” She smiled apologetically. “I was studying and lost track of time.”

She hooked her arm through his as they walked along the bank.

“Mione, the ever-studious one,” Harry mused. “You must be all over your N.E.W.T.s by now. We haven’t seen you in weeks.”

Hermione drew in a deep breath. “There’s been a fair bit happening.”

“Mmmm.” He looked out over the vast expanse of the lake.

She knew he was trying to draw her out. But there was too much to say, and too many things she wasn’t ready to say.

“How’s Ron?”

“He’s alright. You know Ron, always on the lookout for his next catch.”

Hermione smiled. She still loved Ron but he was much better as the brother she never had, than a lover.

They continued on in silence.

“Look Harry. I just wanted to say that I’m in a much better space now and I really want you to know that I’m sorry about the way I’ve been lately. Some things have happened and they’ve made me take stock of what’s important to me. And . . . well you are one of the most special people in my life. So I just wanted to apologise and . . . “

He swung her around to face him.

“You don’t have to apologise Mione. Ginny told me you’ve been to hell and back. No details. Just know I’m here for you.”

Hermione nodded tearfully and wrapped her arms around him again. She was so relieved she didn’t want to let him go.

“Hey!”

Suddenly Harry’s feet slipped out from under him and he slid down the bank toward the water.

“Aaaaahhh!” he cried out.

Hermione slithered down after him. She found him with one foot in the water, grimacing and clutching his leg.

Rolling up the leg of his trousers, she discovered a deep bloody gash in his calf.

“Oh shit!” She wrapped both hands around it to staunch the flow of blood.

“Is it bad?” Harry winced behind his glasses.

“Um . . . don’t look,” said Hermione. “I didn’t bring my wand, did you?”

He shook his head.

“We might have to wait for someone to come by so they can go for help,” she said.  

“Can’t I just walk on it?”

“No.”

He leaned back on the bank and put his hands to his forehead. “Well that was stupid.”

“I’m sorry.” Hermione bit her bottom lip, trying to think what to do.

“It actually doesn’t feel that bad any more.” He raised his head to look down at the leg that was still enveloped in her hands.

“You’re in shock,” said Hermione.

“I don’t think so.” He sat up and put his hands over hers. “Just let me look.”

Reluctantly, she removed them.

They both frowned. His leg was covered with blood but there was no sign of a wound.

Harry rubbed his fingers over his calf but, apart from the scarlet smears, the skin was completely intact.

“That’s weird.”

Hermione looked at the blood on her palms. He had definitely been bleeding. A lot. So why was the . . .

“Oh shit!”

Under the caking blood, flickering across the skin of her palms, were fine trails of blue sparks.

“Oh fuck! Oh Gods!” She stood quickly, staring at her hands.

“What is it?” Harry made a grab for her but she pulled away.

“I’ve got to go! Oh fuck!”

She turned and started clambering up the slope. “Are you going to be able to get up here alright by yourself?” she called.

“Uh . . . I guess so.” Harry stared at her as if she had gone mad.

Hermione was gasping when she reached the top of the slope, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. She had to find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The phrase ‘reamed her brain’ is borrowed from the wonderful OracleObscured who is both a brilliant writer and generous supporter.


	20. Chapter 20

“Severus!” Hermione wheezed breathlessly as she burst into the potions laboratory.  

She was met by twenty four pairs of stunned third-year eyes and one pair of glittering obsidian ones.

“Miss Granger,” Severus drawled, wrapping his robes around his chest and crossing his arms. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Oh, I . . . um.” She glimpsed her blood-caked hands and quickly relocated them behind her back. “I have a . . . message for you.”

“Yessss?” He raised an appraising eyebrow.

Hermione’s stomach clenched reflexively. She was back to being his student and it was agony.

“The . . . um . . . the thing you . . . um . . . wanted me to get rid of . . . well it’s not gone.” She leaned on one foot, trying to look casual, but the nervous nibbling of her lower lip affirmed she was far from it.  

 _Gods she was sexy. Even with her hair all over the place like that._ He felt himself stirring and drew the robe tighter. _But what was she doing here? What was she talking about? What thing? He hadn’t asked her to get rid of anything except . . . Oh fuck!_

His eyes tore away from hers as the penny dropped. He stared at the floor and she could see the cogs turning rapidly.

The students’ faces pitched nervously back and forth between them as though they were watching an extremely tense Quidditch match.

“Thank you Miss Granger,” his voice remained low and even. “I will deal with this issue at the end of class. Please return at three o’clock.”

Hermione widened her eyes at him, trying to convey the urgency of the situation. She couldn’t wait. When she didn’t make any attempt to leave, Severus returned the eye flare and nodded toward the door.

“Surely you have some study to be getting on with.”

_Gods! She’d forgotten how irritating his snarkiness could be._

Turning on her heel she stormed out the door, leaving the students to stew uncomfortably in the boiling tension of her wake.

She needed to wash Harry’s blood off her hands. Harry. She’d just left him there. After going to such pains to apologise for being a bad friend, she’d shown him, again, what a bad friend she was. She couldn’t believe how quickly everything could turn to shit.

Racing up the stairs to Gryffindor tower, she tore through the common room and up the stairwell to her bedroom. Throwing off her jacket, she strode into the bathroom, filling the sink with scalding water. It hurt. But she deserved it. Practically burning off the blood, she lifted her swollen red hands from the water, only to witness several curious tendrils of electricity flickering across her skin, curling around her fingers and restoring them to a healthy pink.

_What in Merlin’s name was going on?_

It had to be the Galvanismus. Everything was identical. But it seemed to be expressing itself on her skin, rather than internally. Although she couldn’t really confirm that either. Palming the condensation from the foggy mirror, she peered at her reflection. Everything looked pretty much normal. Although she was struck again by how healthy she looked. Not one to ever dwell upon her appearance, the difference had to be striking for her to notice.

There was a healthy glow to her cheeks, in fact the lustre seemed to extend all of her body—she frowned down at her arms, never expecting to be able to describe them as scintillating. Her brown eyes, which had been distinctly muddy in the past months, possessed a sparkle that flashed bronze as she tilted her head from side to side, and her bushy hair had acquired a glossy shine that she couldn’t fully attribute to her superior hair products. Could all this be down to the Galvanismus?

She continued to stare at the mirror, her focus turning inward as her mind sifted through thought after thought, image after image. What did she know about the curse? It typically affected the nervous system, lying dormant in sensory neurons. When active, it commandeered the cell’s normal chemical processes to generate electrical currents. In a dying body, that enabled the nervous system to keep the vital organs alive even when the cells, themselves, had lost capacity. But in a healthy body, it caused a devastating multiplication of the electrical activity within neurons, sending everything haywire.

So the million galleon question was, how had it infected her skin? And, more to the point, how was she infected at all? The curse hadn’t entered her. It had entered her projection. She had been in a completely separate room to Severus. But she had felt it hadn’t she? A fuzzy image coalesced in her mind. There had been a burst of something before she’d passed out. Is that why she’d passed out?

Sighing, she mushed her face into her hands, peering at her reflection through the bars of her fingers. The projection. The projection. Maybe it had done something. Changed something. Clearly, it retained a link with her physical body—that’s why she could feel everything. But there was always a thin filmy barrier separating her from everything she touched.

Was it possible that, although super-fine, the layer had been sufficient to thwart the curse? Not completely—the sparking on her skin attested to that—but it might have prevented the curse from infecting her as fully and deeply as it normally would. It was in her skin but maybe it had gone no deeper than that. And if it was in her skin, what would it do to her? How would it behave?

Well, she only needed to look in the mirror to see what it was doing to her. It seemed, on a cellular level that it was repairing, restoring and, perhaps even, healing her. Superficially at least. She recalled that her injuries in the infirmary had resolved much faster than expected.

Then her thoughts returned to Harry. He’d had a decent sized hole in his leg—she was positive of that. But somehow it had healed over in the very short time that she’d held him. Usually the Galvanismus curse, when expressed, turned inward, not outward. So how could it extend beyond her, out of her, to others?

Her eyebrows shot up. Was it the projection? Could the potion’s magic have somehow combined with the curse to enable it to project extracorporeally? Potions and curses. Curses and potions. They had briefly studied complex interactions and contraindications for some of the more basic charm/potion combinations but nothing like this.

And what about Severus? Madam Pomfrey had remarked on multiple occasions how his recovery had been almost miraculous, happening far quicker than could be accounted for by the vast number of healing potions and blood cleansers that she’d administered. Hermione had been lying next to him practically the whole time, desperately wishing him well. Normally, the Galvanismus projected from the body at the time of willing death. Could this new, displaced version be projected at the time of willing life or, at least, willing health? It seemed incredible but there were possibly two examples of it now—Harry and Severus.

A final thought struck her. Not only had Severus’ health remarkably improved over the past few days, but there had been a distinct change in his appearance. Until now, she had put it down to her newfound lusty hots for him and the rose-coloured glasses that, no doubt, accompanied the feelings he had captured within her. But, upon reflection, he was definitely looking different—younger.

The web of lines on his face had receded noticeably and the sickly pallor of his skin had been replaced by a subtle luminescence that accentuated the chiselled contours of his features. Even his hair seemed to sculpt his face, rather than obscuring it behind a lank, greasy curtain. She never thought she would say it but, even to the casual observer, he might be described as handsome. To her, it was an entirely different matter, he was absolutely fuckable and she felt her whole body aching for him.

What time was it? 2.45pm. Good. She was desperate to see him. For more reasons than one.

 ***

They sat facing one another in the potions laboratory, panting heavily, and taking in the evidence that was strewn around them of an intense and prolonged struggle. She hadn’t even had a chance to knock on the door before she was dragged inside like someone being pulled offstage by a shepherd’s crook. From the room’s appearance, they had stopped in a number of locations to remove items of clothing and, judging by the various smears on the surfaces of desks, they had enjoyed a variety of acts and positions along the way.

The main event had taken place on his desk which was now surrounded by a moat of debris including student assignments, upended stationery and a very wet pair of knickers. He had licked her pussy until it was more liberally coated with his saliva than her own juices, before dragging her to the edge of the desk, throwing both of her legs over his shoulders and plunging into her. She had clawed at the desk, trying to gain some traction for both her body and her sanity, but both were quickly lost as she gave in to the omnipotence of his cock. Their feral moans and grunts had echoed off the stone walls as their organs had squelched together. And when they came, bucking together, the cacophony of cries and groans would have put Moaning Myrtle to shame, before they collapsed in a shuddering tangle, marinating in a soup of their own fluids.

Now she was sitting on the edge of his desk and he had collapsed into a chair, both naked and glistening in the low light of the classroom.

“Now why did you want to see me?” he asked, leaning back in his seat so that she had a delicious view from his cock, all the way up to his smug grin.

“I tried to tell you before but my mouth was too full.” She delicately licked a trail of his come off her finger.

“Don’t do that.” He creased his forehead and shook it distractedly, or you might find your mouth full again.

“Promise?”

He sighed and rubbed his hand across his chin. “This isn’t going to work is it?”

Rising reluctantly from his chair, he waved his muscular arms and wandlessly restored the room to its rightful state, scourgifying them both, returning their clothes to their arms and springing the wards and locks on the door to his room.

“Let’s drink tea and try to restore some civility to this conversation.”

Hermione was always up for tea. And sex with him as it turned out. But tea was good for now.

They dressed slowly and made their way to his rooms.

Hermione had only been in his quarters once before and that was under the influence of the projection potion. Now she saw that it was decorated in a style that was both masculine and tasteful. She suspected that he had chosen everything, as it fit with the way that he styled himself. Although, thankfully, there was a lot more colour. And books—she almost had an orgasm on the spot ogling the sea of spines that graced the walls of his lounge area.

“Later,” he placed a firm hand on her shoulder, helping her to sink into one of the comfortable armchairs by the fire.

Moments later, he had conjured a tray with tea and biscuits and placed them on a small table between them.

“I’ll pour the tea and you tell me what happened.”

Hermione was relieved that he was taking control. All the time in the infirmary she had been the one making decisions, caring for him and needing to be strong. She was more than happy to hand over the reins.

“I’m almost positive that I’ve been infected with the Galvanismus,” she said, watching him pour.

He’d suspected it was what she was going to say, but the revelation still rendered him darkly sombre. He didn’t respond until he’d handed her a cup and settled back with his own, a concerned frown furrowing his brow.

“How do you know?”

Hermione explained about the incident with Harry and included all the thoughts that had crossed her mind about the possible healing properties of the curse.

He sipped thoughtfully but didn’t speak until she'd finished.

“And so you think the Galvanismus has changed?” he said, his eyes searching hers.

“Yes and no.” She reached for a biscuit now that she had managed to divest herself of most of what she had wanted to tell him. “It still creates electrical activity within cells, but they are more superficial than normal—in the skin. And it has always been able to project but only at the time of death. Now it seems to project when I want it to. Except I didn't know that till now.”

He cradled his cup in his large hands, running an elegant fingertip down the handle as she spoke.

“And there might be another property,” she said, taking a tiny bite of her biscuit. “Have you looked at yourself lately?”

“I see almost all of myself all the time,” he said. “It’s what comes from having forward facing eyes.”

Hermione rolled hers. “In the mirror?”

“I’ve been shackled to a bed for ten days as you may recall, so I haven’t had much of an opportunity to preen,” he sniffed.

“Severus!” Hermione leapt up in annoyance and snatched his cup out of his hand, pulling him to his feet.

“Where’s the bathroom?” She started pulling him toward a closed door.

He could tell that there was no point in trying to stop her. “Straight ahead,” he said in a bored voice.

She opened the door into a large bedroom with equally stylish furniture including a long and comfortable looking bed—most likely custom made for his tall frame. Her mind instantly started imagining potential scenarios but she shook the thoughts away, determined not to be distracted. Giving his arm another tug, she continued on toward a second closed door. It opened into a generous bathroom with a shower and bath, far nicer than the one she had as head girl.

Again, she forced herself to focus. _But Gods that bath looked deep. They could do all sorts of . . ._

“See!” She turned Severus to face the mirror above the basin.

“Yes. That’s me,” he nodded patronisingly.

Hermione huffed, he was having a boy look, not a girl look.

“Get closer. Look properly,” she instructed, giving him a shove from behind.

He peered at himself, looking pained at having to make the effort. Then his expression changed. She knew that even he could see it. He looked far younger than he had before he had entered the infirmary. In fact, the latest bout of shagging seemed to have done him wonders. He tried to maintain his demeanour of concern but she could tell he was privately pleased, the corner of his mouth twitching upward before he could catch it.

“And so your radiant beauty is also courtesy of the curse?” He raised an inquiring eyebrow at her in the mirror.

“Yes, without it, I’m an ugly old crone,” she replied, hands on her hips.  

“You’re not that old,” he replied, moving his head from side to side to admire his fresh features.

Hermione chewed her lip to stop herself from smiling.

Then he suddenly frowned. “So how long is this reverse-ageing going to continue? Am I going to wake up one day with some abominable baby-face?”

Hermione couldn’t stop herself laughing at that.

“I don’t think so. I imagine the curse just keeps the superficial cells young and healthy. Although a baby Snape might be quite cute.”

“Can you imagine yourself fucking baby Snape?”

She snorted. “Don’t be disgusting.”

“Suddenly it’s not quite so cute is it?” he smirked, turning around to face her.

He ran his fingertips down the side of her face. “So the question is. Do we need to get rid of this curse or not?”

“Not,” she said immediately.

“So one of us has the curse and is chained to a bed for weeks and poisoned almost to death. While the other is allowed to swan around looking ravishingly beautiful and healing whomever she feels is worthy?”

“Something like that,” she nuzzled into his palm. “And I make you look pretty good too.”

“You make my cock look pretty good,” he purred into her neck.

“Your cock does a pretty good job of that itself,” she breathed. “Maybe I should take a closer look.”

He pressed his palms against the tiles, hissing as he watched her take him deeply into her mouth.

She was the best thing that had ever happened to him. And he would take her, cursed or not.


	21. Chapter 21

Hermione turned up to breakfast in the Great Hall for the first time in two weeks and, by the time she found her seat, had drawn so many stares that she was feeling decidedly uncomfortable. How bad must she have looked before if a bit of skin rejuvenation was enough to cause this sort of reaction?

“You have to tell me what you’re using,” Ginny hissed in her ear as she sat down. “Or who you’re using?”

Hermione smirked. “I don’t think you’d want either,” she replied. “Actually you might but you’re not having them.”

Ginny raised her eyebrows, knowingly. “Don’t tell me it’s some sort of Snape cream,” she whispered.

Hermione bit her lip, trying not to laugh. She trusted Ginny not to tell anyone about her relationship with Severus but she still didn’t want to acknowledge too much detail, even in secret.

“Anti-wrinkle semen serum?” Ginny continued, allowing a spoonful of milk to trickle into her porridge bowl.

It was too much. Hermione shrieked with laughter, drawing even more stares.

“Hey Granger!” Hermione swivelled in her seat to see Draco leaning towards her, surrounded by a legion of leering Slytherins.

“You’re not looking half bad these days. I’d even do you—as long as you didn’t speak.”

There was a lot of over-laughing by those around him.

“I’d rather do Filch,” replied Hermione. “And you’d be used to your sexual partners not speaking. How’s your blow-up witch going?”

The Gryffindors around her, and some of the Slytherins who couldn’t stop themselves, laughed in response.

“The witch is good.” Nodded Draco amiably, playing along rather well she thought. “You should come around and see her some time, I think you’d enjoy her blow up broomstick.”

There were more lascivious sneers.

“And just for the record. I’d rather do Filch too,” he added.

It wasn’t a bad comeback but she swivelled around as quickly as possible, rather than acknowledging him.

“As long as Harry wouldn’t rather do you, I don’t mind how stunning you get.” Ginny bit into an apple.

“I don’t think Harry would even want to talk to me any more, let alone do anything else.” Hermione grimaced. “I owe him a big apology. Where is he?”

“I think he and Ron have some last minute Arithmancy homework to finish.”

Hermione had been given an exemption from some of her school work by Professor McGonagall, but she knew she was going to have to knuckle down and limit the significant distractions in her life if she was going to finish off the year with the academic results she needed.

***

“Why are you so good at sex?”

Hermione was lying on Severus’ bare chest in his capacious bed, which had turned out to be as comfortable as it looked.

“Am I?” he responded mildly, his hands behind his head and his biceps bulging like creamy slabs of camembert.

She recognised the jaw clench that divulged his efforts not to smile and slapped his stomach, causing him to clench the muscles deliciously.

“Enough of the false modesty.” She trailed her finger down the ridges of his muscles toward the plain of his pubic hair.

He sighed and put his arms around her.

“It’s not something I care to dwell on—from a time in my life I’m not proud of.”

She knew exactly what he was referring to and found herself stroking one of the many scars on his torso, as if she could somehow soothe away the pain of the past.

“Why don’t you ever glamour your Mark?” she asked, touching the twisted blight above his wrist.

“Because I don’t want to forget,” he said.

She understood that too—not to hold on to the pain but to enhance the contrast—providing a backdrop from which to appreciate the light and good.   

Then she noticed something. “Severus?”

“Mmm.”

“Look at this.”

He lifted his head to see what she was referring to. Her palm was hovering just above his torso and very fine threads of blue light were flickering between her skin and his. He sat up further, propping himself on his elbows. The scarred tissue beneath her hand was changing, transforming, like a burn in reverse. After mere seconds it had disappeared.

She looked at him uncertainly. Maybe that was another mark that he didn’t want to lose. And now it was gone—forever.  

“I don’t need that many reminders,” he said, reading her expression perfectly. “Heal away my little healer.” He brought her fingers to his mouth and kissed them, feeling the same magic pulsing through his lips as when she had ridden him that last night in the infirmary.

Then he leaned back and watched as she worked her way over him, like a welder repairing a tin man. But this time, rather than the Wizard of Oz, it was a little bushy-haired witch that had finally given him a heart.

***

“Severus?”

“Mmm.”

She was still flushed and sweaty from the lesson he’d just given her on the detailed anatomy of female genitalia.

“You remember Mr Harris?”

“The James Bond wannabe?”

“Hey, I thought that too!” She sat up. “I didn’t know you watched Muggle movies.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” An inscrutable spark danced in his eyes.

He didn’t even need to look enigmatic. He was. She could question him forever and she would still find him mysterious. That was part of the attraction.

“Anyway, when you were talking to him you told him that we were exploring and experimenting. Do you remember?”

“Of course. I also told him we were fucking. Poor Minerva looked like she’d swallowed the Snitch.”

Hermione smiled but then her lip slipped between her teeth and she started nervously curling a lock of hair around her finger.

“What is it?” He prompted, rubbing her shoulder.

“That’s what I want to do,” she said quickly, unwilling to prolong her obvious discomfort.

“Exploring and experimenting?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Fine.”

She looked at him blankly. “Fine?”

He nodded.

“Oh, okay.”

She lay back on the bed. That had been a little easier than expected. “Can I suggest something first?”

“Sure.”

“I want you to fuck me in front of a mirror. I want to watch everything that happens.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Erised?”

“No!” She answered more vehemently than she’d intended.

They lay in silence.

“Can you tell me why?” He gently massaged her scalp with his fingers.

Her breathing laboured, as she was clearly struggling with what she wanted to say.

“Because . . . because I don’t want to know who you see in there instead of me.”

She suddenly burst into tears.

He sat up and pulled her onto his lap, turning her face to his.

“The reason I suggested Erised is that I knew exactly what I would see. I would see everything as it is. There is nothing that I desire more than you.”

She stared at him through her tears, quite unable to fathom his words.

“And what would you see?” He gazed at her, into her.

She shook her head numbly.

She knew exactly what she would see but she also knew that he wasn’t ready to hear it.


	22. Chapter 22

It wasn’t Erised. It was a normal mirror. Transfigured from one that could slip into her pocket, into one that sat just below the level of the high window in his bedroom. It was full-length—tall enough for both of them to be entirely visible, and she was glad that it fit under the high window because she wanted to do it in the daylight—candles and lamps were moody but they didn’t provide the level of illumination she needed to watch and remember every detail.

He hadn’t even raised an eyebrow at her request. He was willing to accommodate her, accept her, non-judgementally, unconditionally. It was exactly what she needed.

And she found that she could instruct him, almost without embarrassment. He didn’t sneer or smirk, even withholding the double entendres and innuendos she knew could roll off his tongue at will. He knew how difficult this was for her. Sex wasn’t always serious. But sometimes it was. And sometimes it was intense. As it was now.

He held her up from behind, one arm hooked under the back of each knee. Her legs were spread wide and her feet planted directly on the mirror before her. She was fascinated by the view. It was almost like looking into the inner workings of a clock. The limbs and angles and muscles and shadows of their naked bodies provided both symmetry and working parts. And because he had only just eased his entire length into her—they still held their form.

For a while, the only movement was the agonizingly slow vertical plunging of his fleshy cock into the impossibly thin sheath of her pussy, stretched to capacity around his thick and unyielding column. As her juices flowed more freely, the bulges, ridges and veins of his glistening member were accentuated and she found her eyes drawn simply to his unique map of features. She was getting to know each one with her fingers, her tongue and now, with her eyes, like the creases in his palm and the constellations in his irises.

And yet her own pussy was like a stranger to her. She’d never known it like this. But being able to watch and feel at the same time helped to make it part of her. She wanted to know what it desired, how it responded, and was excited to see the emerging shiny pink flush of her engorged flesh petals and the nub of her swollen clitoris, straining for attention.

As he continued easing in and out of her, the rim of her pussy curling and spreading on each upward and downward passage, his smouldering black eyes never left hers. His breathing was deep and rhythmic as he pushed into her from behind and she loved the firmness of his forearms against her palms as they easily held her weight.

Then it was time to give both jutting nubs what they desperately desired. The fingers of one hand lifted to her breast to tease the puckered nipple. It firmed and lengthened under her fingertips and she suddenly had an intense desire to suck on it. Instead, she lifted her hand to her mouth and put one finger on either side of her lips so she could lick between them.

Severus’ forehead suddenly creased with jealous need and his cock surged into her.

“Unnnhhhh,” she moaned, her mouth still open as she continued to lick her fingers.

When she rolled her dripping digits over her nipple, it glistened like a glazed strawberry and she could tell from the heat of his gaze that he was desperate for a taste.

She continued rolling and pinching her nipple as she licked the fingers of the other hand, before sliding them down over her firm flat stomach. His eyes were no longer on hers, they were locked upon the sinuous course of the digits that were honing in on her most sensitive bundle.

They crawled through her pubic hair like a two man swat team before emerging to assault her clitoris. She peered through shuttered eyes as her rigid fingers rubbed at the distended pink nub. Witnessing the frantic assault, his deep groan reverberated through her spine and his head sank forward almost drunkenly. He was trying to hold back.

He felt her pussy tighten around him and her rubbing became more frenzied. Bracing his arms around her knees, he began pumping into her, faster, deeper.

It was like watching ice cream melting. Her moist creamy curves started losing form under the friction of his pistoning cock. Her mouth fell open and her head pitched back against his chest.

“Oh Gods!”

A grimace of strain and concentration captured his face as his breath hissed like steam between his teeth. He was struggling to stay inside her, she was so tight.

And then their reflections started to shudder, the entire room captured in an earthquake as her feet trembled and convulsed against the mirror.

Her pelvis jerked up and down as she cried out and clutched at his thighs, digging her nails in like claws. The gushing release from her spasming pussy ejected him from her channel and his surging, liberated cock sprayed come like a graffiti artist, in swathes across the mirror.

As it trickled down in sticky wreaths, he lowered her onto the bed, collapsing beside her shuddering form.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Can we do that again?”

“Tomorrow,” she sighed.

“Perfect.”

He pulled her to him and they slept.  

***

Severus was in a particularly good mood, testing out quills in Flourish and Blotts. They had ‘explored’ in the mirror again and he’d managed to stay on for the ride this time. It had been glorious.

“Someone’s looking particularly pleased with themselves.” The silky voice behind him could only belong to one person.

“Lucius.”

Severus didn’t turn but continued to be absorbed in quill testing.

“One wonders how the Hogwarts Potions Master can afford to waste his time with foolish quill waving. Perhaps the life of an ousted spy is better than one might imagine?”

Severus sighed. “And one wonders how a former Death-Eater can be thoroughly absorbed spending his days as a quill waving voyeur. You always did like to watch though didn’t you?”

He turned to face the blonde-haired wizard who immediately tilted his head to one side, lifting his cane to slide the silver snake’s head down Severus’ cheek.

“My, my, we are looking well aren’t we?” His eyes were chips of ice. “I was always the one with the looks to draw them in. While you had the cock to fuck their brains out. But now . . .” he raised an eyebrow, tapping the snake’s head against Severus’ chin. “You could almost be a one man show.”

Severus looked at him with disdain. “It’s been charming reminiscing with you but I must be off.”

“Back to the Mudblood?” Lucius hissed in his ear as he made to walk past.

Severus jerked toward him, his face only millimetres from the snarling blonde. “What did . . . you . . . say?”

Malfoy drew back slightly. Severus’ sinister baritone could still get to him.

“Word is that you both went _missing_ for a considerable period and then emerged, together, with a newfound . . . radiance. Most peculiar don’t you think?”

“I have no idea what you’re insinuating but I suggest you step out of my way before I introduce that snake’s head to your prostate.”

Lucius smirked. “You were always very good at that, as I recall. Maybe you could come out to the Manor and we could . . . reminisce?”

“Go fuck yourself Malfoy—it doesn’t sound like anyone else wants to.”

Severus pushed past and was out the door before Lucius could respond.

***

Severus and Hermione lay in a sweaty tangle of knotted sheets, their limbs tapping in to one another’s galloping heart beats. 

“Do you think it would be possible to rid yourself of the curse?” Severus spoke into the darkness.

Hermione frowned. “What do you mean?”

“If you're infected only superficially, perhaps the removal process wouldn’t be so . . . arduous?”

“Why do you want me to get rid of it?” Hermione propped herself on one elbow and peered at him through the gloom.

The conversation with Lucius had been playing on his mind all day but he didn’t want to concern her with it.

“There may be side effects . . . long-term . . . that we're not aware of.”

Hermione ran a finger idly up his chest. “Perhaps. But there are some long-term benefits too.”

Severus remained quiet.

“Who would I give it to?” she asked. “Neville’s acne has been looking particularly bad lately. I could give it to him.”

Severus snorted.

“You never know,” she said. “It could take him to a career as a famous model.”

Severus chuckled, dragging her to him. “And I could become an international heart-throb.”

“You’re my heart throb,” she said, licking along his bottom lip.

“And you make other parts of me throb . . . “

He took her for the sixth time that day, all thoughts of Lucius leaving his head. For now.


	23. Chapter 23

Hermione was spending more time in Severus’ rooms than her own. She liked to be near him–even when he was huffing and muttering over first year assignments. Sometimes she would watch his deep frown and pouty lips and try to conjure up the fear she used to feel in his presence, then she would superimpose it with an image of him licking her pussy, just so she could feel the surge of erotic tension in her belly.

His breathtakingly impressive collection of books was another reason. The library’s vast offerings paled in comparison to the rare and seminal publications gracing his walls. She often found herself lying on one of his transfigured armchairs, feet rubbing absently on the arm as she drooled (with a hanky just in case she caused any water damage) over the pages of thick dusty tomes and quaint pocket-sized first editions, alike. She was nearly as turned on by the summative knowledge that she knew was waiting for her between those pages, as she was by the sexual prowess waiting for her between his sheets.

Severus was happy. He couldn’t ever remember using that word to describe himself in the recent past. Or even the distant past. With the quickening gone from his life, replaced by a sometimes contemplative, sometimes rambunctious bedfellow, his spirits were higher than they had ever been. He often caught himself mid-whistle or hum in public, and had surprised himself by laughing out loud on more than one occasion in the Great Hall.

He was also noticing that, particularly female, staff and students seemed to be congregating in his general vicinity. Initially, he thought that he must be imagining it but when he had to deal with three writhing fifth year girls with ‘sprained ankles’ in the course of a week, he began to suspect that some may be making deliberate attempts to gain his attention. He certainly wasn’t as much of a bastard as he used to be. Well, most of the time.

“This is what I want to try next.”

Hermione was lying in her nightie on a transfigured chair next to the fire, while Severus was sitting opposite, reading and sipping from a glass of red wine. He had gone off fire whiskey since the night he’d drunk a whole bottle before trying to kill himself.

“Mmm?” he replied, not looking up from his book.

“Severuski.”

“I told you to stop making up ridiculous names.” He continued reading his book as he took another sip of wine.

“I only do that when you ignore me,” she said.

He continued to ignore her.

“Severetto.”

Nothing.

“Severoo.”

He sniffed loudly and turned a page.

“Sever–ed . . . head.”

“What . . . do you want?” He put his palm on the page he was reading and glared at her, which only made her smile more.

“Can you please come over here and sit with me,” she smiled sweetly and fluttered her eyelashes.

He remained unimpressed.

“I’ll make it worth your while.” Her sing-song voice made his lips go all pouty. That was a good sign. It meant he was interested.

With an exaggerated sigh, he slipped a bookmark between the pages and placed it on the table. Then he pushed himself up quickly, standing to his full height to look down his nose before stalking slowly towards her. The dominance display was totally sexy but he would have to wait.

She lifted her legs to make space for him. “But you have to listen to me first.”

Rolling his eyes, he plonked himself down beside her.

“This is what I want to try next.” She rested her legs on him and held up the book she’d been reading intermittently over the past weeks.

“Combination charms,” he said drily. “Sounds fascinating.”

“Now, now, you’ll get your turn,” she patted his chest, while skimming the pages for the part she wanted to read to him.

“. . . combination charms and spells are most often performed sequentially. However, it is possible, with practice, to perform them concurrently . . . ” she read.

Severus pretended to be examining his nails.

“And . . . “ she paused for effect, raising her eyebrows enthusiastically, “powerful wizards and witches may even achieve two concurrent charms or spells within a single wand!”

He continued inspecting his nails while she looked at him expectantly. Eventually, after a protracted silence, he looked at her and shrugged, shaking his head. “And?”

“Listen. You and your cock are going to have to learn how to multi-task,” she said. “Just because you know what’s coming, doesn’t mean you can’t pay attention and show some interest in what I’m saying.”

She could see the cogs of his mind spinning, looking for a witty comeback, but there wasn’t one. It was true.

He took a deep breath and turned toward her slightly to indicate that he was trying to listen.

“I want to write a sex book,” she announced.

Now that got his attention.

“I want to experiment with combination charms in wands. Working out how to make them into multi-functional sex toys and . . . “

She put up her hand to stop him speaking.

“I want to invent new potions like the extracorporeal projection to enhance people’s sex lives.”

That shocked him into silence.

“I want to bring together science, magic and sex for the first time–proper sexual experimentation. What do you think?”

He crossed his arms. "You obviously haven't heard of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes."

"It'll be different."

He snorted.

“What are you going to call it? 'Sexperiments'?”

“Well, we’d have plenty of time to think of a name,” she said, desperately wanting him to be more agreeable.

“How about 'Labia in the Lab'?”

She huffed, knowing that he was getting back at her for her earlier name calling.

“Sexual Science with the Snapes?”

_Now that was interesting!_

He quickly frowned and shook his head “. . . with . . . Snape and co-authors . . . let me see that!”

He snatched the book out of her hand and pretended to read it.

She couldn’t wipe the smile from her face. _The Snapes?_

Pushing herself up, she slithered into his lap, having to work around the book which he continued to frown down at, as if it were the most interesting read in the world.

“What did you say?” she whispered, putting both arms around his neck.  

He raised his eyebrows but continued to read.

“Did you say . . . the Snapes?” She leaned in closer to his ear.

He shook his head irritably. “It was a . . . a slip of the tongue.”

“Maybe I should show you the slip of . . . my . . . tongue.”

She slowly slid the hot wet muscle into his ear and he groaned with lust before throwing the book aside and flipping her onto her back with a growl. “Succubus!”

“I thought you said no more ridiculous names," she grinned, pulling open his trousers and grasping his cock.

She opened her legs, glad that she’d neglected to wear knickers, and positioned his head at her dripping entrance. “Tell me you’ll help me with the book.”

“If it’ll shut you up.”

“It won’t shut me up but we’ll have to fuck a lot more.”

“Done.” He pushed inside her, quickly rendering her speechless.


	24. Chapter 24

“Who wants to go first?”

Hermione’s eyes gleamed amber in the candle-light. She almost couldn’t contain the excitement that had been brewing feverishly inside her for the past two weeks.

Severus rested against the head board, clad in black satin boxers, drawing his wand through his long fingers like a conductor’s baton.

“I think one of us is likely to go off like an exploding bon-bon if one is not put out of one’s misery soon. So . . . ladies first,” he nodded at her.

“Well if you insist.” Hermione jumped up from the bed.

She had spent every spare minute practising and she hoped that her first attempt wouldn’t be a fizzer.

“So, may I just confirm,” Severus drawled, aware that Hermione was about to start frothing at the mouth, but unable to help himself. “That this particular . . . item . . . is intended for _my_ sexual gratification.”

“Yes.” Hermione nodded. “Sort of.”

He raised an eyebrow in his trademark ‘why am I not surprised’ expression. She’d never met anyone who could convey so many different statements through eyebrow semaphore but she also knew that he was trying to put her off her game. It was a competition after all. Well it was to her.

“It’s for both of us,” she tried to sound appeasing.

His lack of conviction made her even more determined.

Taking a deep breath, she held her wand in front of her as if they were about to duel—her other arm out to the side for balance. 

“Lumos!”

A bright bead of light appeared at the tip of the wand, flooding the bedroom around her.

“Intermitticum.”

The light began to flash on and off.

Severus cast his shrewd gaze over her. “That’s two concurrent.”

“I know,” she muttered, not wishing to be put off.

“Acceleratio!”

Suddenly the light started rapidly pulsing on and off.

“That’s three concurrent spells!” she cried happily.

Severus nodded. It wasn’t a simple feat. There’d be very few students, and possibly staff, who could achieve three concurrent spells through the same wand. But he couldn’t afford to be too obsequious.

“So we have a flashing light,” he remarked drily, tapping his wand on his hand.

“Yes, we do.” She gave a wicked little smile.

“Forgive me if I fail to ‘get it’,” he replied.

***

“OK, I get it,” he rasped, his wet hair falling over his face as he collapsed onto the bed.

Hermione had held the flashing wand in one hand and dragged him with the other into the bathroom, which was otherwise pitch black. Handing him the wand to hold, she turned on the shower taps until the room was steaming, then faced him, running her hands slowly down the front of her satin camisole. Each time the light flashed on, her sensual movements leapt out at him like some sort of erotic clockwork doll. She gradually peeled off her camisole, her breasts revealed millimetre by millimetre in luminous stop frame animation, then tugged down her knickers with a similarly agonizing reveal. By the time her wet knickers were on the wet floor, he was rock hard and panting.

The steam added another layer to the illusion, swirling around them and capturing the light in milky clouds. Reaching out, she pulled the elastic of his boxers forward to release his straining cock before tugging them down to his ankles. Then she dragged him into the roaring water.

“Acceleratio!” she cried above the thunder of the spray, briefly touching the wand.

The flashing increased further until it was pulsing with little darkness in between and the water droplets suddenly appeared to be falling in slow motion. Like levitating crystalline beads, they were deeply mesmerising and with the heat, steam and roar, created a multi-sensory disconnect that was both disconcerting and exhilarating. She slid down his body to kneel at his feet, the water coursing over her in hypnotic silvery waves. He lowered the wand to watch as the frenetically pulsing light captured her capturing him. Her lips closed over his cock and he could feel the immediate and continuous suck but could only see it intermittently, her head appearing to jolt from one position to the next. _Fuck this was amazing!_

It wasn’t long before the illusion, combined with her immensely talented mouth, had his balls straining for release and he put a hand on her slick hair to let her know, the water continuing to pour over them both. Rocking back on her haunches she pumped him with her fist until he cried out, his spurts of come turning into slow motion projectiles that spattered her cheeks, mouth and the tiles behind her. His head pitched back against the wall as he pulled her up. Raising the wand, he gave it a final flick, casting them into darkness.

***

“It’s your turn now,” she was lying on his damp chest.

He hugged her tighter to him. “I think I’m going to need a few more minutes.”

Severus was still reeling. Stroboscopic sex—who would have thought?

She traced small circles in his chest hair with her finger tip.

“Do you think many people know about us?” she asked.

“Mmmm, I think so.”

“So do I.”

“Has anyone mentioned it to you?” He tilted his head to look at her.

“Not directly. But there have been plenty of the ‘Snape’s snatch’ and ‘Bat-woman’ remarks—mainly from your lot.”

“Bat-woman?” He frowned.

“You know how you look like a . . . Anyway I think they know.” Hermione continued tracing circles.

His eyebrows lifted momentarily as he gave up wondering.

“Do the staff know?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

“Well someone told Sprout so naturally the entire world should know by now.”

Hermione smiled into his skin.

“What about Potter and Weasley?” His voice took on a distinct tone of distaste.

“I think Harry might but Ron is pretty thick sometimes . . . In a nice way,” she added quickly.

Severus snorted.

“So are you going to show me what you’ve come up with or am I to assume that you didn’t manage any combinations at all?”

Sighing, Severus pushed himself up to a sitting position while she rolled to the side, propping herself on one elbow.

He grasped his wand in one hand and she immediately felt a surge of excitement. His spell casting was always super sexy and she hadn’t witnessed it for too long.

“Celluloso Dispersimus,” he rumbled with a flick of his wrist, his supreme confidence giving her nether regions another blast.

The wand suddenly transformed from solid to soft and rubbery.

“What was that?” Hermione looked on in wonder.

“A derivative of Ossio Dispersimus, the bone removal spell. But this one removes the plant cell wall that gives the wood its strength, leaving it soft and pliable.

_Fuck! He’d invented a completely new spell. He really had been taking this seriously._

“Serpentus!” He nodded. And the wand started to writhe and undulate like a snake.

Now this was getting interesting. Hermione opened her legs slightly to relieve the tension.

His face was a picture of concentration.

“Bifurcatum!” Suddenly the tip of the wand split in two, extending about half way down its length.

Severus’ eyes went to hers, then slid down to her parted thighs.

“Trifurcatum!” He amended, and it split into three writhing parts.  

_An original spell and three charm combination. That beat hers. Hands down._

He locked eyes with hers. “Elongatus,” the word dripped from his tongue and she almost had an orgasm on the spot as the whip-like tentacles widened and extended.

_Four charm combination. She’d never heard of it. Fuck he was impressive._

“And now. I’ll have you over here. On . . . my . . . lap.” His lips hung open after the ‘p’ in ‘lap’ and she swallowed hard, trying to stop herself from drooling in response.

His legs were under the sheets and his naked torso leant against the head board. He guided her to lie on her back between his legs with her open pussy on his lap, her feet spread on either side of his shoulders.

She had never felt so exposed in her life. She placed her hands on his muscular thighs which were only thinly veiled by the sheets—sensing that she was going to need something to hold on to.

He hooked his fingers between the three wriggling wand heads and gently lowered them down to her pussy. She immediately surged upward as he guided the first thick tip to her clitoris. It writhed and flicked around her sensitive nub, sending jolts of pleasure surging through her body. His fingers eased and guided the second flexuous tendril to slither around between her folds before finally allowing it to delve into her opening which was already generously lubricated with juices. The sensation of it gliding and writhing around inside her made her gasp, digging her fingers into his thighs.

Severus’ lips turned up at the corners as he watched her coming apart under his ministrations. He then let the third head slither up inside her pussy to join the one that was already wreaking havoc with her control centres. Together they twined around one another, slithering in and out, while the first was still whipping her clitoris into a frenzy.

“Uuuhhhhh,” she moaned, her head tilting back in ecstasy.

Using his fingers, he pulled the third glistening head from her pussy and guided it toward the tight ring of muscle that had been clenching in and out like a sea anemone the entire time. The tip delved into her tight opening and gradually wriggled its way inside her.

“Gods!” she cried, her head lifting off the bed.

“Just relax,” his deep voice soothed her.

Her syncopated breathing came in bursts and he could tell she was close.

Pulling the second head from her pussy, he delved two of his long fingers inside her and pumped them purposefully, rubbing at the bumpy ridge on her front wall—the wand continuing to simultaneously plunder her clitoris and roil around inside her rectum.

She screamed as her pussy exploded in a shuddering mass of convulsing flesh and juices. Her legs spasmed, lifting the whole lower half of her body off the bed in gyrating waves as her release trickled down his wrists, leaving his cock peering through a generous wet patch on his lap.

He sat back with a satisfied grin. Perhaps now she would think twice before challenging him to a battle of the wands.

Peering at him through slitted eyes, she huffed. “Trust you to make yours a fucking Slytherin tribute.”

He smirked in response. “And of course if I were the Hufflepuff Housemaster I would have made an erotic badger.”


	25. Chapter 25

Hermione hadn’t seen Severus for two days. And six hours. And thirty two minutes. She had been forced to accept the reality that, although he might be her current number one favourite person to be with in the world, he was still the Potions Professor and Slytherin Housemaster and there were certain duties he needed to take care of. He’d been exempted from them during his recovery but no doubt Headmistress McGonagall had decided that since he looked so healthy, and seemed to spend hours with Hermione doing Merlin-knows-what, he was well enough to return to his duties.

It was the longest they’d been apart since before he’d entered the infirmary and she wondered if he was missing her as much as she missed him. To be perfectly honest, she didn’t just miss him, she ached for him, inside and out. He’d already told her that he desired her above anyone else, and the ‘Snapes’ line weeks before had certainly been a welcome revelation—even though he’d claimed it was an accident. But she sometimes wondered if it was all about the sex for him. Certainly that was a big part of it for her too. Having her mind blown by someone so experienced, immensely talented and willing to experiment had been liberating in the extreme. And then there was the sex book—she had so many chapters penned in her mind already.

But part of her was thinking about the future. Her N.E.W.Ts were only weeks away now. And after that what would she do? Get a job?

The path of her life that had seemed so inevitable, and even attractive, only a month or two before now stretched before her like one long Divination lesson—insufferable drudgery. Then again, she did possess the Galvanismus . . . but it would take a lot for her to be fully convinced that the curse had now, genuinely, become a blessing.

Alternatively, she could attend University—undertake a research project to keep developing her theories and ideas. Would she be accepted to complete a thesis on sex?

Hermione Granger—Professor of Sex. It would be a misnomer anyway, the Professor of Sex was right here at Hogwarts. She had double potions with him in an hour. Thank Merlin.

And what of Severus? Potions Master. Professor of Sex. Did he really envisage a future with her? He had asked her on his death bed if it were possible. But what did that really mean? Something casual? Something serious? Or did he mean ‘the Snapes’ even then? It hardly seemed likely. And is that what she really wanted—to become Mrs Snape?

She was still so young—her whole life was before her. She hadn’t really experienced much of the world at all. But for some reason, when she visualised her future, she was somewhat surprised to discover that she couldn’t imagine leaving Hogwarts any more. Or if she did, it would only be because he was coming with her.

***

“What page was it?” Ron was flicking through the stained and sticky pages of his potions book.

“Three hundred and ninety four,” Hermione muttered under her breath.

Severus was always ready to jump on Harry or Ron if they weren’t paying attention so she didn’t want to alert him to the fact—although he seemed to be busy preparing some sort of potion, himself, at the front of the room.

She watched him from under her lashes but he didn’t look at her once. He’d also made no special attempt to acknowledge her when she’d entered—even though it was the first potions class she’d attended in weeks, having been granted an exemption to focus on her N.E.W.Ts.

She suspected that he was avoiding adding fuel to the rumour fire. Although most of the class clearly suspected that there was something going on, judging by the non-too furtive glances that were bombarding them from around the room. Draco was particularly blatant, standing with his arms crossed and looking expectantly between the two of them.

And so she was chopping furiously, more than a little annoyed that the excitement that had been building all day had been whacked out of her by one of Severus’ generic withering gazes.

“So what’s Gribsnot?” Ron screwed up his nose.

“Gribshot,” corrected Hermione.

She was beginning to regret asking Ron to be her potions partner. They hadn’t had a chance to talk in ages and this was turning into one of those interactions that made her glad that they’d split up.

“So what is it?”

“I have it here.” She tilted a crucible to show him the small red pellets.

Ron lifted it to his nose and sniffed. Then shrugged. She had no idea why he insisted on doing that with everything—he was like a dog.

And Severus was like a magnet for her eyes. She couldn’t stop them returning to his imposing form, chopping and stirring efficiently at his desk. She’d never seen him brew in class. It seemed strange for him not to be casting his scathing glare over the students. But it was also a pleasant change. Perhaps he trusted them.

“Do these have to go in now?” Ron was picking up bits of the root that she had chopped and had already dropped a significant amount on the floor. 

“Not yet.” She sounded too short with him. “Later.” That didn’t really help either.

Ron didn’t seem to notice, dropping them back on the chopping board and rubbing his hand over the spiky bristles on his chin as he looked around at one of the girls behind him. Hermione had noticed that she’d been watching him for most of the lesson.

She was about to roll her eyes when she caught sight of Severus. He was looking at her—but it was that practised, inscrutable expression that gave her no clue as to what he was thinking. She should look away, she didn’t want to be caught staring. But she couldn’t. There was something about the deliberacy of his movements that made her watch.

And then she felt it. A single finger slowly running down the side of her throat. Her body jolted and her flesh popped. Oh fuck! He appeared to be concentrating intently on what was before him, his lithe fingers sweeping expeditiously along the chopping board. But she felt them as a caress down the skin of one of her breasts and over the nipple, which instantly burst to attention like popping corn.

“Shit!” she hissed through her teeth.

“What happened?” Ron turned back to her.

She shook her head, trying to catch her breath.

“Um . . . I just thought we’d forgotten something. It’s fine.”

She gave a feeble smile which turned into a grimace as Severus’ fingers continued their downward progression, trailing over her fluttering abdomen and gliding under the elastic of her knickers.

“You don’t look so hot.” Ron put his hands on his hips. “I mean, you look hot. Obviously. Actually, I’ve been meaning to tell you that . . . “

Hermione raised a hand to get him to shut up. Then braced both arms on the table as she felt Severus’ finger slide into her slit.

“Oh Gods,” she murmured.

“Are you okay?” Ron leaned closer to her.

She nodded furiously and swallowed.

“I just think it’s something I ate . . . for breakfast.”

“Really?” Ron looked surprised. “I thought breakfast was pretty good for a change.”

“Mmmm.” Hermione winced as the finger slid around her clit. “Soooo . . . goood,” she groaned.

Ron frowned at her as if she’d gone barmy.

She closed her eyes, tilting her head back with a gentle sigh. “Uuunnnhhh.”

“Should I call Snape over?” He was beginning to look concerned.

She quickly shook her head. “He’s already . . . no . . . no don’t,” she replied. “I’ll be fine as long as . . . “

Two fingers delved into her aching core and her legs nearly collapsed. She bit her lips and leaned all of her weight onto her arms, breathing heavily through her nose.

“Do you need me to hold you up?” Ron came up behind her and put his hands on her waist.

This was excruciating in so many ways.

“I’m fine thanks,” she stood quickly, blinking to try to regain her composure, as her insides started embarking on a frenzied workout.

“Well . . . if you’re sure.” Ron reluctantly dropped his hands down and stepped back to his place at the desk.

Finally, she managed to raise her head to look at Severus. He was smirking as his fingers dipped into and stirred a jar of something. _Fuck!_ She could only breathe through her mouth as she felt the tightness build.

Then he stopped. And she exhaled slowly in relief. She peered at him blearily. What was that thing in his hands? It looked like a glass pipette—for drawing up liquid. Oh. It was. A mouth pipette. For sucking up liquid. His eyes didn’t leave hers as he raised the glass tube to his lips.

_No, no, no, no, no. Yes!!_

Hermione groaned and doubled over the desk as he felt his tongue swirling around her clitoris and his fingers sliding back into her.

“What’s the matter, Granger?” Draco’s voice whispered in her ear. “Too much sex? I hear he’s got a big one.”

“Fuck off, Draco.” She blindly swatted at him.

“Fuck! Look what you’ve done!” he hissed.

She turned to see a red slash in his palm where the scalpel he’d been cutting with had sliced into him.

Before she could stop herself, she reached out and immediately a spray of crackling blue bolts leapt from her palm to his, knitting up the gaping flesh in seconds.

Draco’s mouth dropped open as he watched.

Grasping his bloody, but newly healed, hand in his other palm, he stared at her. “What the fuck?”

Then dawning comprehension turned his grey eyes to ice.

“How interesting, Granger.” He nodded slowly, sneering. “Doesn’t that explain a lot?”

His gaze dragged down the length of her body and back, before he snorted and stalked away.

***

Hermione was standing on the Astronomy tower, the highest point in Hogwarts Castle and smiling for the first time since the incident with Draco. She’d spent a considerable amount of the last day and a half freaking out and the rest of the time blaming Severus, who had actually apologised. He’d also told her about the conversation with Lucius which had made things worse. That was when she’d decided that she needed to gain a new perspective.

A gentle breeze swept dusty clumps of clouds across an, unusually, azure sky and she felt that Spring and new beginnings wouldn’t be far away. As she gazed out on the vast landscape, what she felt most was gratitude. Her life was good. The simple parts of it. She realised that she didn’t need much to be happy—her mind, her health and the love of good people. And she felt that the Galvanismus had the potential to threaten it all.

It was both fascinating and frightening—totally awe-inspiring in its potential. But also an unknown quantity. And if she were totally honest, any past thoughts on healing had focused on using her creativity and inventiveness, not the side-effects of some curse. The other thing was its impact on her appearance. She had never been one to particularly care about her own looks, and she was aware that the effects of the Galvanismus were changing the way that people treated her. But, worse than that, she didn’t like what it had done to Severus. He was sexy without the sparkle, without the radiance. His appeal was never superficial and it was becoming so. She wanted the old Severus back.

For all those reasons she had decided that she would get rid of it. Somehow. She needed to do more research. And she would need Severus’ help. But it would be gone. And then they could move on— together. She leaned over the parapet, taking in a deep lungful of the crisp, clean air. Now, she would go and tell him. And she might even tell him the other bit. That she was in love with him and wanted to stay with him, forever.

Suddenly she heard a voice behind her.

“Hello, little girl.”

Before she could turn around, everything went black.


	26. Chapter 26

Where was she? Severus stood in his chambers. He was too worried to even pace. She was always punctual. Always. She cared about that facet of decency nearly as much as he did. So why was she twenty-eight minutes late? He stared at the door, counting the buttons down his frock coat with his fingertips in a nervous habit he thought he’d shaken. Where in Merlin’s name was she?

Had she lost track of time? She’d been understandably distraught when she’d left but had assured him that she just needed some fresh air. What had she said? ‘A new perspective’. He should have followed her. He was supposed to be a spy for fuck’s sake. Gritting his teeth, he looked at his watch again.

A noise in his bedroom drew his attention. Striding to the door, he threw it open and was immediately confronted by a hostile owl. The creature squawked in his face before dropping a letter on the ground and swooping back through the bedroom window. Severus glanced about, both his instincts and training told him that he had good reason to be worried.

The red envelope by his boot mocked him. Face down it was innocuous. But he had the sense that opening it would release something that could never be recaptured. He knew it must be done but paused to draw a deep breath, savouring his final moments of ignorance before cautiously bending down and picking it up. 

The first thing that struck him was the scent. It was a perfume that percolated through to memories that he had well and truly buried. He tapped his finger on the stiff edge. No name. No address. Grasping it in both hands, he tore the envelope open. Inside was a small card inscribed with only a handful of words—ominous in their brevity.

_I have something of yours. Come to MM._

_V.R._

Severus’ hands were shaking and his heart was trying to escape through his throat. Something of his? She wasn’t something of his. And she certainly wasn’t something of theirs, whomever they were. Clearly this person saw Hermione as nothing more than a possession. He rubbed his hand over his waxen face, the sense of foreboding anchoring itself inside his chest.

MM? Well it didn’t take a genius to work out that that referred to Malfoy Manor. But V.R.? He had no idea who that was. He didn’t know anyone with the initials V.R. did he?

And then there was the smell, the scent that returned to him, transforming as it melded with his memories until his nostrils were filled with the toxic stench of poison.

Then it hit him. The sudden realisation stole his breath away and his heart shattered, the card spiralling from his fingers like the first splinter of its imminent collapse.

_Gods no!_

He had received such a letter before. Over ten years ago. Perfumed. Signed V.R. The memory shrivelled his stomach to such an extent that he had to swallow hard to stop himself from vomiting.

It could be no other. Violetta Rosier. Half-sister of Bellatrix Lestrange and Narcissa Malfoy.

He’d only met her on one occasion. But that meeting had been sufficient to demonstrate to him what she truly was. A monster. Her depravity made even Bellatrix look sane. Severus collapsed onto the bed, remembering that Voldemort, himself, had rejected her attempts to join the inner sanctum – she was too unpredictable, too unhinged even for him. _My God! Hermione!_

Severus stifled a sob with his fist. He’d never been more afraid in his life. Afraid of losing her—the one shining light in his pitifully bland and paltry existence. He had no plan, no strategy and, perhaps, no hope. But if he was going to lose her, he would rather go too, than stay in this miserable world a second longer.

***

Within minutes, Severus had apparated to Wiltshire and was striding up the bleak walled walkway to Malfoy Manor. He hadn’t told anyone where he was going and had left only a brief note, to be delivered to Professor McGonagall if he failed to return. His wand was hidden beneath the folds of his cloak and he grasped it so tightly that it was slick with sweat.

She’d better be here. And she’d better be okay.

The door opened even before he’d reached it. The starkly contrasting black and white figure of Lucius Malfoy stepped onto the threshold, silver-headed cane in hand.

“Severus, Old Chap. What an indescribable pleasure it is to see you.”  

“Where is she?”

“Of whom do you speak?” Lucius cocked his head in mock puzzlement.

In a flash, Severus had drawn his wand and jabbed it into Lucius’ throat. “Don’t . . . fuck . . . with . . . me.”

Lucius grinned and knocked the wand away with his cane. “All in good time,” he chuckled. “There's someone who wants to meet you first. In fact I think you already know each other.”

Severus allowed his wand hand to drop slowly back to his side.

“And if you wish to see the mudblood again,” Lucius continued, the mirth in his eyes suddenly frosting over. “I suggest you hand me that wand. Right. Now.”

Severus glared at the hand that Lucius extended to him. He’d known it was inevitable but having nothing to combat what was waiting for him felt worse than stupidity. It was suicide. But then an image of Hermione, alone and scared and possibly worse swam into his mind. He needed to find her. And to have any chance of that, he needed to be inside.

He slammed the wand into Lucius’ hand, who winced briefly before pulling his mouth into a sneer.

“And so it begins . . . “

The manor was unusually dark, with most of the heavy drapes drawn, adding an eeriness to the naturally sinister ambience of the place. Voldemort had been present the last time he had been in attendance and he couldn’t shake the sense that his vile malevolence still permeated the walls.  

They climbed the echoing marble staircase in semi-darkness and arrived at a door that was ajar.

“After you,” Lucius gave a sardonic bow before knocking the door open with his cane.

Severus entered the large room which was lit only by candles and the modest blaze within the fireplace. A lone figure reclined on a chaise lounge, their form in stark relief against the flames.

“Severusss.”

The familiarity of her voice immediately made his skin crawl.

Rising slowly, the silhouette approached him with a seductive swagger but it was only when she was within a few feet of him that her face was illuminated sufficiently to see. She’d aged. But it was still unmistakably her.

“Violetta.” Severus over-pronounced the ‘ta’ at the end.

It was his attempt to diminish her just a little. And it worked.

Her eyes flashed in response and her lips, coloured deep mulberry, pursed imperceptibly before she lifted her chin, reasserting her dominance.

“I’m flattered that you remember me,” she purred. “I certainly remember you.” She reached up and trailed her mulberry fingernail along the ridge line of his jaw. “How could I forget . . .  one of the best fucks of my life?”

Severus’ jaw clenched. All he wanted to do was forget.

She continued to gaze up at him as she made a slow circle around his stock-still frame, trailing her fingers over his chest, shoulders and back before returning to stand before him. 

“But one thing I don’t remember, Darling,” she gushed. “Is how absolutely stunning you look.” She reached up to curl a lock of his hair between her fingers. 

“Don’t you agree Lucy?” She looked at Lucius who had been leaning on his cane, smirking the entire time.

“Stunning,” he agreed with a nod of mock servitude.

“Mmmm.” She licked her lips and raised a salacious eyebrow as if she had just tasted the most delectable morsel and was hungry for more.

“I believe you have something of mine.” Severus spoke firmly, not wishing to be drawn into the provocative babble that he knew she could speak _ad infinitum_. 

She sighed and her smile dropped away. “I see. We must deal with the business before the pleasure.”

Instantly, she snatched a wand from the nearby table and flicked it to ignite a host of lamps around the room. Severus could finally see properly but his stomach was still roiling at her previous suggestion, confident that they had two very different views on the definition of ‘pleasure’.

“Let us sit.” She gestured to the chaise lounge and two chairs by the fire.

She took up her position on the lounge and Severus sat opposite, finally taking in the fullness of Violetta Rosier. She had to be at least ten years older than he, although she was still attractive—if one had a thing for nefarious beauty and a body that was glamoured to within an inch of its life. Her long greying hair was streaked with a similar deep purple hue to the rest of her accoutrements which, considering her name, gave her a sense of parody—if only she were remotely amusing. Which she wasn’t.

She wore mauve satin lingerie that accentuated her well-shaped breasts and, as she sat smiling at him, stroking her inner thigh with her long nails, he noted the vampiric contours of her eye teeth. It seemed appropriate, as he remembered her as an insatiable sexual parasite—a relentless nymphomaniac with a penchant for sadism.

“You are correct.” She continued to stroke herself. “I do have something of yours. Something quite delicious as it turns out.”

Severus tensed and grasped the arms of the chair.

“Oh look at him Lucy. I think he cares for the little slip of a thing,” she chuckled darkly. “Don’t worry I haven’t touched her. Yet. Although if I had to wait any longer for you, I was going to have a . . . taste.”

Severus wondered how long it would take to break her neck with his bare hands. But Lucius had his wand out, casually tapping it on his knee as he watched their interaction.

“As you know. She possesses something quite remarkable. Something we all seek,” Violetta lifted her hand from her thigh to draw it down the length of her cheek.

“And what would that be?” Severus glared at her with undisguised hate.

“Well, the fountain of youth, Darling.” She held out her hand to indicate that it was obvious.

“Glamours and potions can only go so far as you know. But to have an eternal source—a wellspring of youth to dip into whenever . . . I . . . like. Well that is something very special.”

Severus’ heart was knocking a hole through his chest.

“It’s only superficial,” he said out of desperation. “Only skin-deep.”

“Aren’t we all?” she laughed.

“And what’s your interest?” He spat at Lucius. “Not pretty enough?”

Lucius smirked. “One can always do with a . . . lift.”

Severus’ could feel himself gasping for breath. “What do you intend to do with her?”

“There are no limits to my intentions,” she answered with cool honesty. “Clearly, the more contact I have with her, the better the outcome.”

“You know you won’t get away with this,” he ground out, digging his fingers into the arms of the chair. “You’ll be hunted down.”

Violetta waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll hide her away in a tower where no one can ever find her. You know the story. She’ll be mine.”

Severus looked desperately at Lucius who shrugged nonchalantly. “Who’s going to believe that we stole her? I understand that she has engaged in some, shall we say, ‘questionable’, behaviours. She ran away before anyone could discover the truth.”

The world was spinning. Severus couldn’t make sense of it any more.

“So what do you want with me?” he finally muttered.

“Well that’s the interesting part.” Her purr was back as she stood and sauntered over to him. “It so happens that I would be willing to give up an opportunity for eternal youth for you to fuck me like you mean it.”

His chest was crushing in.

She straddled him and nestled herself into his lap. “I am giving you the opportunity to earn her back.” She ran her fingers down his cheek. “I’ve never met a man that can satisfy me. There’s only one who’s ever come close. And he’s sitting right under me. So I thought it might be fun if we make this into a little game. You have two days. And if I raise the white hanky first, you get the little girl back. But if you fail. She stays with me. Forever.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning folks that the following chapter may not be to everyone’s tastes.

Severus sweated as he reflected upon his extraordinarily bad run of luck with shackles. The ones currently adorning his wrists were, by far, the worst. Despite the deceptively innocuous appearance of the bronze bands, he was more than attuned to their nefarious potential. Not only did they prevent his wandless magic, but were imbued with a far more malevolent enchantment, the cruciatus, which could be triggered upon command.

Lucius reclined in his seat by the fire, an amused smile playing on his lips as he revelled in Severus’ acute discomfort. Violetta had exited the room ‘to prepare’ and Severus was left wondering whether he should simply let Lucius cruciatus him to death before she returned. But it was thoughts of Hermione, terrified and possibly injured—who knows what they had already done to her?—that resolved him to do everything in his power to protect her.

Actually, 'protect' probably wasn’t the best word to use at this point in time as he sat in a pair of flimsy boxers, under the imminent threat of the cruciatus, with no idea whatsoever where she was. Frankly, he was in pretty well as bad a position as he could possibly be in. And having agreed to engage in a fuck battle with the single most psychotic bitch he had ever had the displeasure of meeting, he was surprised that his mind would even allow him to consider his lot in such droll terms. Still, it was probably better than shitting himself, which was the inevitable alternative.

“Why isn’t Narcissa joining us for this charming dalliance?” He rubbed his thumb in circles over the smooth wooden arm of the chair, seeking even the smallest of comforting sensations to relieve his mounting tension. 

“She’s staying with her mother. Not that it’s any of your business,” Lucius replied.

“I suppose she’s comfortable with you fucking her deranged half-sister?”

Lucius rolled his wand between his fingers as he considered his response. “How do you think the mudblood will feel when I tell her what you’ve been doing with the 'deranged half-sister'?”

Severus glared at him. He was doing it for her. It was the only thing he could do. He would die for her if he had to.

“I thought you wouldn’t have had the balls to tell her,” he continued as if Lucius hadn’t spoken. “Narcissa never did take your exotic tastes particularly well did she?”

Lucius sneered. “And what would you know of my tastes?”

Severus looked down his nose at the white-haired wizard. “I’ve heard that your recent sexual forays have been more . . . necrotic than erotic. Are you still doing Bellatrix? I’m sure she’s less trouble post-mortem.”

Lucius leapt from his chair and growled the shackle cruciatus command. “Nagini!”

A bolt of excruciating pain surged like hot needles from Severus’ wrists throughout his body, making him convulse uncontrollably. He clawed helplessly at the chair, trying to regain both his traction and his senses.

“Now, now Lucy. I need him in good working order.”

Violetta had entered the room with a large bundle under one arm.

“Just giving him a taste of what will happen if he doesn’t keep his mouth shut.” Lucius snarled, flopping back into his chair.

“I don’t want him to keep his mouth shut. Not with a tongue like that.”

Violetta made her way over to the long polished table that adorned the centre of the room.

“But if we do require some respite. I have . . . other . . . means of gagging him.”

She placed the bundle at one end of the table and, with a flick, unrolled it to reveal one of the most diverse collections of instruments and implements Severus had ever seen.

“Because you are one of my favourites,” she crooned. “I’ve brought a selection of my toys and pets for you to play with.”

Severus rose on unsteady legs and wobbled over to the table. He was interested in the collection for one reason only.

He immediately made a mental note to try to curb his acerbic tongue after viewing the collection of gags, ranging from gob-stopping balls to cheek shredding spikes. It wouldn’t help his cause whatsoever to have his mouth ripped apart and teeth broken.

So what did she mean by ‘toys and pets’? He ran his eyes over them. He could see devices that could be described as ‘spanky’, ‘whippy’ and ‘pokey’—what he really wanted was ‘slicey, ‘dicey’, or, even better, ‘cutty throaty’. But it appeared that she hadn’t been stupid enough to include any such implements.

Then his eyes settled on a selection of other ‘items’ restrained in plastic pouches. Those must be the pets. He identified an ashwinder, flobberworm and a young blast-ended skrewt—immediately trying to dismiss from his mind what horrors the creatures must have been exposed to, or even perpetrated.

As a bout of nausea overwhelmed him, he sank back into his chair to the sound of Lucius chuckling.

“Go skrewt yourself,” Severus muttered, closing his eyes and drawing in deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself.  

He heard her soft footsteps approach but kept his eyes closed, like a child not wishing to let the monsters in. She resumed her position in his lap and her noxious perfume overwhelmed him once again.

“Your time starts now,” she whispered and he felt the tip of her tongue licking the sweat that trickled down his temple.

There was only one way he could muster an erection under these circumstances. He conjured the beautiful, sweet, open, intelligent, fiery, loving face of Hermione and carried the toxic creature in his arms to the bed against the far wall.

He wasn’t going to hold back. He couldn’t afford to. Hermione’s life depended upon it. And so he went down. With purpose.

“Gods! Severus!” Violetta dug her talons into his hair as she writhed against his face. “You are so wasted on that little girl.”

She groaned as she rode him harder. “That tongue belongs in a real woman! Unnnnhhhhh!”

She came in a rapturous series of cries that echoed off the walls.

Severus only just resisted the temptation to spit as he sat back on his knees, breathing hard.

“I knew you’d be worth it.” She gave him a vampiric grin from between her heaving breasts. “Time for round two.”

He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and grasped her by the thighs, lifting her at an acute angle before driving into her with his cock.

“Oh fuck!” She clutched at the sheets, her mulberry lips opening and closing like a dying fish.

 _Take that you fucking bitch._ Severus’ breath hissed between his teeth.

She was surprisingly strong and he felt himself fighting against the muscles of her ravenous cunt. He was desperate not to come. Not only because she was the singularly most repulsive creature he could wish to fuck in the world but because, if he was going to last two days, he couldn’t afford to blow too many times.

He felt her tightening and thought he might just make it when something suddenly slipped into his backside.

He immediately halted and twisted around.

Lucius was leaning over him with a lubricated finger thrusting into his anus while he stroked his own impressive cock.

“Fuck off, Lucy!” Severus roared.

Lucius stopped his thrusting but didn’t move, glancing at Violetta.

“Darling, just for now. Look but don’t touch,” she responded from her awkward angle, head buried in the sheets.

Eyes snap freezing, Lucius slowly withdrew his finger. “As you wish.”

He then sauntered forward until his cock was only inches from Severus’ face and started to pump himself slowly and deliberately.

Severus took a moment, contemplating feigning an accidental biting fit which would see Lucius divested of an appendage. But he knew that it would be the last thing he ever did.

Trying to regain his focus, he resumed pumping into the purple-haired pussy and brought his thumb down to manipulate her clitoris which was bigger and more aggressive than any he had ever encountered. Even her clit was psychotic.

Before long, he had her on the edge again and, judging by Lucius’ grunts and the precum bubbling out of his hole, he was nearly there too.

She came with her usual ear-shattering vocalisation and, moments later, Lucius’s balls spasmed and he spurted his load all over Severus’ face.

“You pathetic cunt!” Severus spat the come from his mouth.

Violetta was still convulsing with post-orgasmic aftershocks as she responded breathlessly. “Now Lucy, where are your manners? Clean Sevvy up please.”

Lucius sneered and pulled a white silk handkerchief from his pocket. He used it to wipe his own cock off before smearing it all over Severus’ face. He could see the dark-haired wizard’s fingers curling and knew he was playing with fire. But the prick was likely to be dead in a day or so, so what did he care?

“Nagini!” He shouted, chuckling as he left Severus writhing in pain.

Severus drifted in and out of consciousness, losing track of time and often waking to find her blowing him or snapping on a cock ring ready for the next bout. The cruciatus was draining him of energy and, since the demented bitch insisted that all food should be eaten from her pussy, he had somehow lost his appetite.

His body was wearing down, bloody and bruised from where she’d scratched and bitten him. He eventually staggered over to the table of ‘toys’ wondering what he could do to tear her apart. He chose a number of spanking implements and, once he’d started, began to think this should have been his initial strategy as she seemed to enjoy it immensely and at least he got to hit her—although not as hard as he would have liked.

Lucius came and went. Sometimes he stayed to watch. Other times, it seemed that he was away for hours—although Severus couldn’t be sure of anything anymore. Severus employed a vast array of dildos, vibrators and devices he had never seen before but shoved into her anyway, hoping that the sheer volume would be enough to instigate some sort of libidinous depletion or orgiastic fatigue in her.

He wasn’t sure how long it had been but his heart suddenly leapt when she rasped, “I think I’m going to need a small break, Darling.”

When she left the room, Severus guzzled down nearly a litre of water, as he could finally get it out of a bottle and not her twat.

Lucius was looking particularly sour, leaning against the mantelpiece with his cane resting on his boot.

“Worried I might actually pull this off?” Severus wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

Lucius snorted. “I didn’t think you were that naïve. Do you really think you’ll ever win?”

Severus eyed him warily. Upon reflection, it did seem a long shot to trust these two to hold up their end of the bargain. For some reason the ultimatum had been so extreme that his focus had been on the process rather than the reality of the outcome. Had he been through all this for nothing? He picked up his boxer shorts and slowly put them on, not wanting Lucius to see the uncertainty in his eyes.

He had no reason to feel hopeful whatsoever. Even if he did out-play them, it was unlikely that he would ever win. But the thought of losing his life concerned him little. His greatest fear was that Hermione would think that he’d never come for her. That he hadn’t tried his best.

“I brought a healing potion with me,” he announced. “As I wasn’t sure what I’d find here. I’d like to take it now.”

Lucius looked at his torn and bloody body indifferently. “I don’t know why you’re bothering, it’ll just prolong the inevitable.”

“I’d like to think that I did everything I could.” Severus said simply.

Lucius stared at him for a long time and then nodded once. “Where is it?”

“My coat pocket.”

Lucius pushed himself off the mantel and sauntered over to where Severus’ clothes had been placed in the corner of the room.

He fished out the bottle and threw it to Severus, who caught it with a chime of his brass shackles. “Heal away,” he smirked.

_‘Heal away’—it’s what he’d said to Hermione when she was erasing his scars, restoring his heart. The happiest moment of his life now seemed so long ago._

Removing the stopper, he drank down the liquid. The crisp coolness filled him, as the projection instantly flew from his body. He knew he didn’t have long and so moved as quickly as he could, room to room, translocating through walls, searching the vast expanse of the mansion. His heart sank further and further with each empty room, until he reached the final level, the attic.

Winding his way through the dusty labyrinth of furniture and boxes, he realised that it, too, was empty. She hadn’t been there all along. Or had she? Through the milky projection, he spied footprints on the ground leading to what appeared to be a solid wall. Projecting through it, he entered a dim cell and there she was, shackled to the wall, head listing against the bricks, eyes closed. _Gods!_ _She was alive_. He held back a sob as he surged toward her, pressing his lips to hers.

Her eyes flew open and he saw her soundless cry, “Severus!”

He wanted to stay with her, to kiss away the tears that were streaming down her cheeks. But he couldn’t. He didn’t have time. He moved down to the floor for a few brief moments before kissing her again and withdrawing. As he drifted away, he saw her sobbing, squeezing her arms into her heart as she read his words in the dust.

 _I love you_.

 


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning folks that the following chapter may not be to everyone’s tastes.

Severus was exhausted, bloody and stank of sweat and sex but his heart was soaring. Seeing Hermione and kissing her warm, tender lips had been like a balm for his ailing soul. While Lucius and Violetta clearly expected him to be dead within the next few hours, he had been infused with a renewed sense of purpose and was more determined than ever that he should succeed. He needed to take Hermione home.  

“Lucy, my precious, you have been _most_ patient. I think it might be time for you to join us.”

Violetta had returned looking reinvigorated. It wasn’t what Severus had hoped for. And he desperately hoped it wasn’t a sign that she’d been near Hermione.

Lucius finally moved from where he had positioned himself by the fire, the sulky demeanour that had presided over him for the past day and a half, transforming into one that was distinctly animalistic, even predatory.

Severus, however, was less than enthusiastic about engaging in a threesome with Lucius. They had too much history together. None of it good.

As Lucius disrobed, Violetta retrieved a jar from her supplies and threw it to Severus.

“I want you out the back so make sure that immaculate cock is well oiled.”

Lucius approached her, looking put out. “I thought that was my spot.”

“Lucy, Darling, I want you in my pussy so I can watch you. You know you’re my favourite.”

She pulled him to her and proceeded to devour his face like a dementor.

Severus turned away and began stroking himself, thinking of his beautiful witch—in front of the mirror, under the strobe lights, riding him in the hospital bed. His cock rose but his heart sank. He just wanted to hold her. To listen to her breathing. To watch her sleeping. Just being near her made him content—it was all he wanted.   

When he turned back, Violetta had her mulberry lips around Lucius’ cock and his fingers were buried in her purple hair as he thrust into her face.

Severus sighed. There had to be a way to deliver he and Hermione from this hell.

After minutes of grunting and slurping, they seemed to be ready.

“Uuuhhh Lucy, that’s itttt!”

Violetta’s arms were wrapped around Lucius’ neck and her legs clamped around his waist like a Violetta flytrap. His large hands swathed her backside, spreading her cheeks apart, as his cock moved in and out of her pussy.

In that position, Lucius carried her over to where Severus was standing.

“I believe you’re wanted in here,” he said, stretching her even wider.

Severus’ face was impassive but his mind was going at a million miles an hour. They were both compromised. If only he could take the two of them out at once. But if either of them uttered the shackle cruciatus phrase ‘Nagini’, he would be on the floor again, helpless.

Instead, Severus scooped two fingers into the jar of lubricant and rubbed it over his cock. A little bit of him seemed to die with every act he was forced to engage in. Would there be anything worthwhile left for Hermione, even if they did manage to escape?

Clenching his jaw, Severus moved up behind Violetta and positioned himself at her puckered entrance. He wanted to tear into her but he’d never enjoyed inflicting serious pain, even on people who deserved it. So he gradually eased himself into her and, judging by her moans of ecstasy, she was relishing it.

And so the purple psychopath was pinioned between them. Lucius held her from the front and Severus from the back. They both pushed into her, initially alternating their thrusts like they were working a pump trolley. Then Lucius’ eyes locked on Severus and he gritted his teeth as he sought to rub himself against Severus’ cock, with only her thin wall between them.

Severus did his best to ignore Lucius’ eager attempts to thrust and parry his cock, focusing on his part in bringing her to completion—not that it would satisfy her for long. Her breathing was shortening and her vocalisations increasing. It meant she was getting close.

Suddenly Lucius released one of her legs and grabbed Severus’ neck, yanking him forward to crush their lips together.

“Yessss!” Violetta cried. “Keep doing that!”

And so Severus had to engage in a writhing tongue battle with Lucius who seemed to be striving to choke him, while they both frantically pumped into the screaming harlot between them—black, white and purple hair, writhing together like multi-coloured seaweed. Finally, she came in a fit of convulsions and Severus was able to pull away, gasping for breath, wiping at his bruised lips.

“You didn’t come, Lucy,” Violetta remarked breathlessly, as Lucius lowered her back to the ground. “That’s unlike you.”

“I thought I’d save it,” Lucius’ eyes were still on Severus, his chest heaving.

Violetta followed his gaze. “Now that’s something I’d like to see. Yes, you do Sevvy and I’ll pull up a vibrator and watch.”

Severus closed his eyes. With so little food and sleep, he felt like he was stepping into an alternative reality. But unfortunately it wasn’t. This was happening and it was real.

“I don’t think Sevvy’s come once yet,” Violetta remarked. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“Oh I’m sure. I know just what he likes,” replied Lucius silkily.

Severus shook his head against what he knew was coming but was powerless, under the threat of the cruciatus and what they could inflict upon Hermione, to oppose him.

And so Lucius cast a quick scourgify over them both before grabbing the jar of lubricant and rubbing it liberally over his rock hard member.

Then he approached Severus with an amused grin. “Don’t look so serious Sev. It’ll be just like old times.”

“And weren’t they stupendous,” Severus spat. 

 “Some were,” Lucius murmured before running his hands down Severus’ bare torso.

Then his hands trailed lower as he sank to his knees and Severus closed his eyes so he didn’t have to watch the white-haired wizard engulf his cock. Unfortunately, although the sensation conjured up memories that repulsed him beyond measure, to his cock it felt pleasantly familiar and it responded immediately. Severus put his hands on his hips to avoid grabbing a handful of Lucius’ hair and thrusting his cock down his throat, while Lucius used all of his experience to bring Severus to the edge. When he heard his guttural grunting start he knew he was ready.

Allowing Severus’ cock to bob free, Lucius stood and pulled him by the arm over to the bed. Violetta was already there, massaging herself vigorously with her vibrator. She moved over to give them room.

Lucius lay on his back and pulled Severus over to straddle him, lowering him slowly onto his well-lubricated cock. Again, Severus closed his eyes to the sensation of Lucius’ firm member pushing past the tight ring of muscle into his depths. But he couldn’t help the groan that escaped his lips.

“Ooh he does like that doesn’t he,” Violetta purred as she noisily plundered her pussy.

Severus breathed through his nose, trying to maintain control. If Lucius thought he would be helping with the process he was sorely mistaken—he sat perfectly still with his hands on his thighs, determined not to touch the white-haired wizard more than absolutely necessary.

Lucius chuckled at Severus’ impersonation of a blind statue. “Have it your way.”

He pulled Severus forward until he was propped with one arm on either side of Lucius’ body, bottom raised but still impaled on his cock. Then he started thrusting up into him, before reaching out to grasp Severus’ cock in his fist, pumping it expertly.

The dual sensation of Lucius’ rigid column rubbing against his prostate and his firm hand tugging on his dick was going to be too much.

Severus gritted his teeth as Lucius increased the speed of his thrusts and grabbed his balls, squeezing them while he continued to milk his cock. 

“Fuck!” Severus ground out before his balls contracted.

As he came, Violetta cried “Nagini!” causing his whole body to spasm and adding extra propulsion to his jets of seed which spattered over Lucius chest, neck and face.

Collapsing in excruciating pain, the last thing he saw was Violetta licking his come from Lucius’ lips.

***

He didn’t know how long he had been unconscious but when he awoke Lucius was gone and Violetta was propped on a pile of pillows above him, still playing with her pussy.

It was then that he realised he was finished. She was insatiable. Or he wasn’t up to satisfying her. Either way, it was over. She was likely to cruciatus him to death when he raised the ‘white hanky’ that Lucius had been so kind to leave behind. And then she would take Hermione—plunder her until she was no longer useful and give her the same treatment.

He had tried everything. Everything he knew. There was nothing left in his arsenal. Nothing.

But . . .

What about Hermione’s arsenal?

He suddenly felt more alert. Shit. Could it work?

He stilled the hand that had suddenly started tapping nervously on the sheets.

“Someone’s looking a little more . . . energetic,” Violetta purred, delving into her folds nonchalantly. “I’m ready when you are.”

Severus needed to play this very carefully.

“Have you ever heard of combination charms?” he asked her.

“I’m not one of your students, Severus.” Her smile dropped away as she halted in her ministrations. “Although, come to think of it, I could be one of your students. You don’t mind fucking them either.”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” Severus forced himself to reach out and touch her leg in a gesture that he hoped was familiar and engaging. “I mean combination charms for sexual gratification.”

Her eyes narrowed but when he slipped his hand down and started pressing into the sensitive flesh of her foot sole, they glazed over and she nestled back into the pillows.

“That was one of Voldy’s party tricks wasn’t it?” She gazed at the ceiling. “The famous four charm combination.” She sounded almost wistful. “I remember he could transfigure his wand into a phallus that levitated, fucked and cauterised all at once.” She laughed darkly. “I can still smell the lovely smokiness of their burning flesh, Mmmm.”

Severus’ hand stilled. His own flesh was crawling. He remembered the smell and it made him want to scream. The evil bitch was nearly as depraved as Voldemort—he couldn’t bear the thought of what she would do to Hermione.

He forced himself to continue in an offhand manner. “It’s just that  . . . I’ve been experimenting and developed a four charm combination that you might . . . enjoy.”

“Four charms?” she sounded interested but still eyed him with suspicion.  

He wasn’t surprised that she was sceptical. He had basically been killing her with his eyes for nearly two days.

“Tell me about it.” She continued to finger herself.

This was the tricky bit. It wasn’t something he had experimented with at all but Hermione’s strobe combination gave him the idea that it might work.

“It combines electrostaticus, intermitticum, acceleratio and elongatus. The result is a phallus that stimulates with a mild pulsing electric shock that is accelerated to climax.”

Her lips curled and he recognised the crazed shine of sexual fervour in her eyes. The proposition tapped in to the core of her exotic fetishes and he could see these base instincts warring with her rational mind. _For want of a better word._

“And why would I allow a wizard, powerful enough to cast a four charm combination, who would sooner kill me than look at me, access to his wand?”

 _So she wasn’t as stupid as she looked_.

“These shackles prevent me from casting any combat spells, correct?” He held up his wrist.

“Correct.”

“If you remove the band from my wand hand, I’ll still be able to cast the charms but no combat spells. And once I get to four, the wand is safe as it’s impossible to cast five concurrent spells through the same wand.”

The battle was clearly still raging inside her but he could tell she was considering his words. Finally, she removed her fingers from her pussy and licked them thoughtfully.

“Why? Why would you want to give me this . . . pleasure?”

“I believe it’ll be the winning move,” Severus said simply.

“You think I’ll be ready to wave this afterward?” She picked up Lucius’ white handkerchief and let it dangle from her nails.

“Perhaps.” Severus raised his eyebrow.

“You have my interest.” She crawled off the bed and strolled over to a locked and warded cabinet where she used her wand to open it and remove his.

Returning to where he sat on the bed, she handed him the wand. “You know I will cruciatus you to death if you try anything,” she murmured as she removed the brass band from his right wrist.

“Naturally,” he responded.

He closed his eyes. This would be difficult enough to achieve if his head were fully clear. But after two days of hell, it was going to take nigh on a miracle for it to work. It was also a combination he’d never tried before. Still, he had one good reason to give it everything he had.

Holding the wand before him he cast the first spell. “Electrostaticus!”

A blue spark appeared at the tip of the wand. He touched it to his own arm and a brief shock pulsed through his skin. It was working.

“Intermitticum.” The spark started flashing on and off, exactly the way that Hermione had demonstrated with the lumos spell.

He let out the breath he had been holding and projected his love to her in the attic. _She was so fucking clever_.

“Acceleratio!” He flicked the wand and the spark flashed faster.

Now the difficult part. The fourth charm. He could probably get away with three, the combination would still work. But she would know he had a fourth up his sleeve. He had to make it work.

“Elongatus!” To his relief, the wand immediately transfigured, lengthening and widening to a size that should give him something to work with.

“I’m ready when you are.” He gave her a wink and almost vomited with self-loathing.

Her face was slack with desire as she lay on the bed, legs spread wide. Positioning himself over her, he lowered the tip of the transfigured wand to her clitoris and the effect was immediate. Her hips leapt off the bed and she cried out.

He lifted it back from her and watched.

“Don’t stop,” she groaned.  

Lowering it again, he started zapping her clitoris, over and over again. Each time it shocked, she bucked a little less, adjusting to the sensation.

“Gods! That is amazing,” she hissed through her gritted fangs. “It feels like a slow, rhythmic orgasm.”

Severus wondered if he would ever get to use it on someone that he would actually like to give a slow, rhythmic orgasm. But it probably wasn’t the time to dwell on such things.  

After a few minutes, she was panting, clearly enjoying proceedings. 

“At this point I would normally speed it up further and put it inside you, but my magic is restricted.”

She frowned at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Any acceleration beyond this point is an adjustment to the current combination. It’s not an extra spell but it requires more powerful magic—which is being prevented by this other shackle.”

She was getting impatient. She wanted the full effect.  “Your wand’s safe with the four spell combination and I have this one to blast your head off if you don’t fuck me properly. So let’s do it.”

She removed his other shackle and threw it on the floor before digging her wand under his chin. “Give me . . . what you’ve got.”

He held her gaze. “Acceleratio!” The sparking sped up further and he trailed the wand down from her clitoris to her entrance where he allowed the shocks to convulse the muscles.

“Fuck Severus! This is so . . .fucking . . . amazing!” she growled as he pressed it deeper into her. “You should do something with it . . . “ Her words were lost in another guttural groan.

“We plan to write a sex book,” Severus replied evenly.

It took a while for the words to register. Then she started to chuckle between her gasps. “Who’s we? Not that stupid child you’ve been fucking?”

Severus didn’t respond but pressed the wand in further.

Violetta continued to laugh, even as her orgasm built. “That bit of fluff is as good as dead. I’m the ‘Sexpert’ here. I should be the one to write a sex book.”

Severus’ jaw clenched as he pushed the wand in to its limit. “Don’t make up ridiculous fucking names,” he hissed.

“What?” A frown contorted her face.

“You heard me! Confringo!” he shouted.

The fifth spell blasted through his wand and she was dead before she hit the wall. As the white handkerchief fluttered down to rest on her breast, Severus flicked his wand to release all of the charms before winding his arm.

“Expecto Patronum!”

A shimmering blue doe appeared out of the radiant wave trailing from his wand, galloping around the room before passing through the closed door. It would find Hermione. And she would know he was coming for her.

 


	29. Chapter 29

Severus held Hermione tightly as they stumbled down the steps to Malfoy Manor. The fresh air hit them like a welcome stranger and their eyelids fluttered in grateful ecstasy against the watery sunlight. Severus’ strong arm pulled Hermione to his side, as he practically carried her along the path. Her relieved and exhausted muscles had jellified, welcoming his firm guidance. It felt almost miraculous to have him pressed against her again.

They had barely spoken since he had broken into the cell and blasted the shackles from her wrists, his patronus—the steadfast and nurturing doe—dissolving away upon his arrival. Instead they had kissed, all over one another’s faces, tasting and soothing in equal measure.

When they were through the gates and approaching the apparition point, she felt it safe to ask,

“What happened to the purple nutcase?”

Severus was moving quickly but his speech was barely impacted. “We won’t have to contend with her any more.” He pronounced ‘contend’ ‘cunt end’ but she could tell by the grim line of his mouth that he wasn’t joking.

“And Lucius?”

“He was gone.”

“Do you think he left her on purpose?”

“Perhaps.” Severus wrapped his robes around her at the apparition point. “I did, however, take the opportunity to hex the sex toys in his bedroom. Let’s just say that the next time he uses them, they will require surgical removal.”

And with that they disapparated back to Hogwarts.

***

They lay naked on his bed with as much skin touching as possible. She rested upon his chest, her head nestled under his chin. As her cheek absorbed the rhythmic tympany of his heart, she had an almost womblike sense of nurturing protection from him. They had done nothing more than touch one another, revelling in their closeness—a potent antidote to the pain of their separation.

The euphorically sensate nature of their melding was such that any distinction between their forms was no longer possible. They were conjoined, in delicate balance with a singular fulcrum, their essences mutually exchanged and shared. And the only indication of an interface between their bodies were the humid crevices that flashed with tiny sinuous bolts, like stormy microcosms, the blue sparks licking from her skin over his, easing, soothing and healing his wounds.

But even that couldn’t compare to the emotional healing that was happening within. For Severus, the juxtaposition between his commitment to die for her, and his commitment, now, to live for her, created an overwhelming fullness that was so exquisite that it prickled his eyes.

“I love you so much, Hermione.”

His voice, laden with feeling, did not seem to derive from breath but from, perhaps, an inner life force, chi, oiling his vocal cords and anointing her heart.

She lifted his hand, the one resting on the small of her back, to her face and placed her small palm against his large one.

“I love you Severus. I adore you. I never thought my heart would hold something as beautiful as you inside it,” she whispered, the flickering sparks between their palms reflecting in the shine of her eyes.

His fingers curled over hers as he swallowed down the surge of emotion unleashed by her words—he felt so unworthy but he craved them beyond reason.  

Hermione trailed her fingertips over his palm. His hands were something she had always found so beguiling, even as a student. Mostly hidden by the sleeves of his frock coat and often cloistered by his furled fingers like the heart of a flower, the rare glimpses she had had of them, fully exposed, often elicited a jolt of erotic desire.

Now they were hers, no longer to covet but to worship. And she honed in on the finger she loved most. His ring finger. The least used and normally least expressive of any hand, but for him, it was the most prominent, he rubbed its tip with his thumb as he thought, he curled it around his robes when he drew them in, it performed the final caress of ingredients into a cauldron, and was often the last to unfurl when gesticulating, like the final petal opening.

Now she trailed her tongue up to the crevice where his palm joined with that finger she adored. She licked there, swirling her tongue into and around it, slipping down between the webbing. It was these hands that often made him seem more magician than wizard, more musician than master of potions—an artist of unparalleled skill. And paying homage to them so intimately was intoxicating for her as her breathing quickened, sending short cooling blasts in its wake.

Severus gazed at perfection. He used to think that the quickening would be his end—would finally make his heart cave in. But that paled in comparison to what this vulnerable, yearning, sensual, infinitely complex being could do. His heart had ballooned—it was too big for his chest, too big, almost, to sustain life.

She continued to lick at the base of his finger, revelling in the sensation, as she knew there would come a time when she couldn’t. It would be covered by the band that she placed there—when they finally became ‘the Snapes’.

And when she felt that she’d had her fill, she glided her tongue up the tiny grooves of his finger, stopping at the crevice of each joint for further reverential reflection before reaching the tip and sucking it gently into her mouth.

These fingertips held the memories of his entire life. And what a life it had been. They had touched so much, so many. And she felt herself connecting with all that was him through that tiny point—tongue to fingertip. An unbreakable bond. She imagined them floating in the ocean or even in space, connected always.

He felt himself floating away. On a tide of unparalleled bliss and love. But with her. Forever with her.

“Let me worship you, Hermione,” he murmured into her hair.

She took a final few moments, eyes closed, to savour the hairline whorls of his fingertip before she felt ready to release him. Then she smiled. Although she knew what had likely transpired in the torturous confines of Malfoy Manor, she also knew that what they shared transcended anything and everything that encapsulated the mere physicality of sex. The experience had not tarnished them. If anything, it had driven them to new heights of understanding, striving for new expressions of love.

 _And he was still achingly fucking sexy._ Her smile broadened _. Let the worshipping begin._

Slithering slowly up his body, she placed her lips on his, gently at first and then with increasing urgency as she raked her fingers through his silky hair. One of his hands grasped her hip as the other curled into her locks, desperately holding her to him. He drank down her scent, her taste, her passion, her love like a man parched to the bone. And although she delivered with gushing abundance, he knew he would never be quenched. He would want her always.

They kissed until they lost all sense of time and place, compressing the entire world into the space between their mouths. His desire was ravenous but his expression was tempered—tender and patient. He needed to do this right. To worship her properly, he needed to tune in to every fibre of her body. His awareness was of her, not himself, and her responses would drive everything he did.

After an eternity, he gently grasped her in his arms and rolled her over so that she was lying with her hair in a fan on his pillow. His dark eyes, deeper than a night sky, sank into hers. He didn’t need legilimency, it was like he’d always known her.

And so he kissed her neck, his soft nose trailing down after his warm mouth. Her sigh, like a whisper on the breeze, told him all he needed to know, continuing to plant each in a smouldering trail along her breast bone, with the tip of his tongue as a sign off.

She felt her lungs contracting involuntarily, pushing out a needy moan. His soft hair trailed over her like a curtain of silk, that slipped into crevices and tickled erogenous zones that she didn’t even know existed.

He continued down to the delicate skin between her breasts where he licked and nuzzled before making small, laving gains on his ascent to the peak of her left mound.

So far she had managed to stave off her need to touch him, giving him space to work, but clutching the sheets was no longer sufficient and she released them to bury her fingers in his hair as he licked small tantalising circles around her nipple. She desperately wanted him to suck her but also wanted to prolong this moment as long as possible and so settled for holding her breath for agonizingly long periods of time, her brow knitted and her lips parted with unbridled lust.

Feeling her breath hitch, he finally allowed himself to engulf her nipple and her response was perfect.

“Uuuhhhhh.” The escaping air tickled her vocal chords and her body writhed under him.

His tongue swirled and laved around the taut bud as his lips suctioned onto her rosy flesh. Her writhing became more rhythmic and he could tell that her core was becoming increasingly desperate for his attention. His talented fingers squeezed and rolled the other nipple into a pliant peak before sweeping across her chest to claim it.

Parting her legs, she nudged him over with her knee so she could straddle his hip, rubbing her moist heat against him. He continued to alternate between both nipples until they stood as shiny erect beacons, like lighthouses on the hills of her creamy skin. Then he engulfed her hands which were still clinging to his locks, bringing them down to take his place at her nipples.

As she began stroking and rolling them, he continued on the next leg of his journey. Marking his route like an explorer, he pressed kisses down the skin of her abdomen which fluttered and bounded like a drum skin beneath him.

Her breathing had increased considerably and she continued to arch into him, trying to gain some traction for that slick suite of sensors, striving desperately for stimulation.

Dipping into her belly-button with his tongue, he elicited a yelp and a buck that dislodged him, allowing her time for a quick nudge that saw him suddenly between her thighs.

He chuckled, the mellifluous sound adding another sheen of lubrication to her already glistening folds. Still smiling, he dipped lower to lick up her inner thigh but her hands were quickly on him pulling him back. He didn’t need to be a legilimens to work out what she wanted.

He dipped the tip of his tongue into the apex of her folds and she shuddered. She was on a hair-trigger and her hyper-responsiveness to his touch made him feel both potent and intimately accountable. It wasn’t a time for playing and teasing, it was time to satisfy in a way that showed her he knew her better than anyone in the world.

And so he lowered his mouth over her clitoris and laved the hidden forms and folds in the way that soon had her panting and keening in equal measure. Then he licked his way down toward her vagina, stopping to explore the sensitive opening to her urethra along the way. Her thighs squeezed inward, trying to engulf him. He hooked his arms around and pulled them back open, licking his way to her main opening, where he delved in like he was licking the cream from a brandy snap.

“Severus!” she cried, thrusting into his face and grabbing his hair in her fists. He was reminded of the way she had ridden him in her ‘lucid dream’ but was too busy reaching into her depths to laugh at that now. He continued drinking noisily from her dripping cave walls, holding her thighs tightly in case she managed to buck him off.

He used his thumb to massage her clitoris as he licked into her from every angle and her groans turned raw, animalistic. She was close.

Increasing his pressure on her clit, he rammed his tongue in as far as it would go. He loved the feeling of her coming around his cock and fingers, but it was special to have her coming around his tongue. The density of the receptors in his slick muscle and the fact that it was a multi-sensory experience where he had an opportunity to smell, taste and swallow what was ejected from her body was glorious.

And that’s how it happened. She groaned out a primal scream as her body gave up on decorum or even basic levels of control. It was as violent an orgasm as she had ever had. Her body convulsed as if she had been shocked with the cruciatus and he latched onto her as she bucked around, determined to stay on, and in, until the end. Her muscles convulsed around his tongue deliciously and he continued rubbing at her clitoris, prolonging her release as long as possible as he gulped and lapped at her gushing channel.

The groans of ecstasy continued for a long time after her orgasm hit, the aftershocks wrenching them from her throat. Eventually he pulled back, panting with the effort, his face and neck slick with juices and saliva. She rubbed absently at his scalp with her fingers as her head rocked blissfully from side to side in a post-orgasmic haze. Then she pulled him up towards her and immediately kissed him on the mouth, tasting herself and stroking the tongue that had brought her so much pleasure.

She opened her eyes to look into his and all she could see there was love. Her heart leapt, knowing that she had found the special soul that could both accept her and love her. All of her. He would always be beautiful and he would always be hers. And, no matter what happened, he would be with her, embedded in her heart, forever.

 


	30. Chapter 30 - The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I mentioned at the beginning, this is my first foray into writing so I'm keen to learn as much as I can. I hope to write more in the future. Thanks so much to everyone who has provided support and feedback so far. If you liked (or didn't like) anything I would love to hear from you as it helps a lot with my future plans. Hope to return again soon. Yours, DS

“Wait up, Mione!”

Hermione turned to see Harry jogging toward her in his Gryffindor graduation robes, hat in hand.

“I hear congratulations are in order.” He grinned.

Hermione smiled shyly. _How did he know?_

“Top marks for your N.E.W.Ts.” He put an arm around her shoulders as they walked toward the great hall.

“Oh that, yes,” Hermione answered a little too quickly.

Harry squeezed her gently. “Why? Is there something else I should be congratulating you for?”

“No . . . not that I can think of.” She never was a good liar.

“I’m glad you’re so happy,” Harry murmured. “Now Ron and I don’t have to worry about copping a bollocking every time we open our mouths.”

Hermione snorted, drawing looks from the procession of gowned students around them.

“You make me sound like a banshee,” she muttered.

“No joke, on her day, Moaning Mione gave Moaning Myrtle a run for her money.”

Hermione elbowed him in the ribs, only just holding back another snort.

“So when did he propose?” Harry looked at her.

“Oh fuck, Harry,” Hermione spoke quietly into her hand. She hadn’t expected word to get out so quickly.

She leant her head against his shoulder as they continued to walk in silence. His hand still gripped her firmly and she knew that he wasn’t angry. Just protective. That’s why she loved him so much.

“If you’re hoping for an explanation, I’m afraid there isn’t one,” she said.

“I’d settle for an answer to my question,” he said, his face open and honest.

“Two days ago.” She hooked her arm around his waist.

“I’m guessing that something happened before that,” said Harry. “It wasn’t just ‘Hermione, you are an insufferable know-it-all. By the way will you marry me?’ was it?”

Hermione convulsed with laughter, burying her face in his shoulder. She’d forgotten how funny Harry was and how good he made her feel.

“No, there was a little more to it than that,” she admitted, drawing in a deep breath. “You know how it is for you and Ginny? Well, it turns out that’s how it is for Severus and I.”

“I know,” she said, seeing Harry’s raised eyebrows. “I call him by his first name and everything. I mean, marriage was always going to be the next step.”

Harry chuckled and looked around to make sure they were out of earshot.

“As long as he makes you happy,” he said. “Like I told you before, he’s the bravest man I’ve ever met—and he’d have to be to get hitched to you.”

“That’s it!” Hermione cried, digging her fingers into his side and making him yelp.

“What’s it?” Ron nudged into them like a sleepy badger, his gown hanging askew and his hat nowhere to be seen.

“Harry’s just full of . . . “

“. . . brilliant ideas,” finished Harry.

 “Mmm.” Hermione looked at him dubiously.

“Are you okay?” Ron looked over her face.

“Fine thank you,” she replied. “Why?”

“Oh. It’s just that. Well, you sort of looked . . . different . . . before.”

“This is me looking normal,” said Hermione. “Sorry it’s such a disappointment.”

“Nah, not really,” said Ron. “Well . . . maybe a bit.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You two will be the death of me,” she muttered, hooking her arms into both of theirs.

They had managed to shuffle their way into the Great Hall which was adorned with an impressive array of decorations and constellations for the graduation ceremony. It was one of the unusual times that the staff forfeited their positions on the stage to honour the graduands. Hermione, Ron and Harry, together with the rest of their final year classmates took their seats, looking out upon a sea of eager student faces, behind a row of smiling teachers. All except one.

Hermione gazed at him. He wasn’t scowling or sneering. Rather, his expression was one of mild intrigue, his obsidian eyes fixated upon her. And as she watched him slide his hand down under his cloak, she felt the warmth of his fingers slip around hers, his thumb rubbing gentle circles on the back of her hand. A lump rose in Hermione’s throat. How did he always know exactly what she needed? And how much of that bloody potion had he made? She held back a sob of happiness as he continued to caress her.

Her eyes moved behind him to the bobbing mass of students. And there was Ginny, giving her the double thumbs up. She was her best friend and confidant. She knew everything. And she still loved her. Hermione was beginning to think that her unlovable self might not be as bad as she had once thought.

Sliding along to the end of the front row, her gaze snagged on someone whom she didn’t, at first, recognise. Not only because she wasn’t wearing her uniform, but because she had changed—considerably. Poppy Pomfrey was looking so well these days, she might even be described as radiant.

Hermione smiled to herself. The mediwitch had been more than happy to accept the Galvanismus. It had been quite a simple process in the end. All it had taken was a scalding hot bath and a focussed intent. The blue bolts had transferred to Poppy Pomfrey in a slithering wave, almost as though they belonged to her. And considering the incredibly close relationship she had had with Professor Dumbledore, it wasn’t difficult to imagine that he would have wanted it for her—not as a curse but as a blessing. Her medical knowledge and healing powers were now unsurpassed and she had the kind of outlook that Hermione knew would allow her to use it to its full effect and for maximum benefit.  

Her mind suddenly lurched back to the present as she heard her name announced in Professor McGonagall’s gentle Scottish brogue. As she stood, the entire hall erupted in rapturous applause. She was suddenly overwhelmed by the magnitude of the occasion, her watery smile holding back a well of emotions. It was the end of one exciting but tumultuous era and the beginning of another—full of unknowns, but a new phase she was more than ready to embrace. As she made the slow trek across the stage, she imagined the thousands who had made the same journey before her—it was the culmination of their childhood experience and endeavours. She also wondered how many had covered that distance with their lover’s fingertips trailing lightly up their inner thigh.

Accepting her certificate with a nod and warm handshake from the Headmistress, she turned to acknowledge the joyful crowd. But all she could see was him, back to his old self, a thoughtful finger pressed against the soft pad of his bottom lip and the simultaneous sensation of that silky petal brushing against hers. She couldn’t remember a happier moment in her life.

***

His feet were propped on a footstool and her bushy head was nestled comfortably in his lap. She voraciously consumed a book on wandwork, while he massaged her scalp and read the Daily Prophet, spread on the arm of his transfigured couch.

Suddenly, she was jolted by his loud snort and her eyes flicked up to his, waiting for the explanation that would follow. 

“It seems that Lucius Malfoy is still in St Mungo’s recovering from his ‘mystery illness’,” he reported drily.

Hermione couldn’t help but smile. Severus had never told her the details of what had happened at Malfoy Manor but she knew that Lucius was lucky to have escaped with his life.

“How awful for the albino ferret.” She closed her book, then reached up to curl one of his dark locks around her finger. “I wonder which item was kind enough to exact revenge.”

Severus gave a wry grin. “I think he might have actually tried to skrewt himself. Those creatures can grow alarmingly quickly, especially when hexed with an engorgement charm.”

Hermione pondered the image of a monstrous skrewt burrowed inside the albino ferret—it would make a prime attraction for the Hall of Abominations.

“And here’s more sad news.” Severus gave the page a flick. “It seems that the world has lost a ‘loving sister and daughter’ in Violetta Rosier.”

“Oh, shame.” Hermione gave a mock pout as she continued to fondle Severus’ hair. “She sounds like a really lovely person.”

“She was,” Severus nodded. “Only I think she’s more lovely dead.”

“Any other news?” she asked, moving to his cheek where her fingertips brushed over the dusting of prickles that had emerged over the past day.

“It seems that the Ministry of Magic is still pursuing reports that a five charm combination was cast through a single wand. It’s yet to be verified but, if so, it will be the first on record.” Severus raised an eyebrow. “Whomever executed it must be an astoundingly . . . potent . . . wizard.” He gave her a lascivious grin before pushing the paper off the chair and catching her by the wrist. Bringing the pale inner surface, laced with delicate blue veins, to his lips, he nibbled and nipped at the skin like a hungry vampire. 

“Or witch,” she added, beginning to squirm as her body immediately responded.

“Or . . . witch,” he breathed over the damp skin, making her shudder. “Imagine the offspring of such a wizard and witch,” he murmured, looking into her eyes as he planted kisses along the inside of her elbow.

“Imagine.” She smiled. “It would take a lot of practice to make just the right ones, though.”

“A lot,” he agreed. “They would need to try every . . . possible . . . position.”

“Mmmm.” Hermione closed her eyes as his hand slithered down her neck and stroked her breast. “They would need to take every opportunity . . . to experiment.”

“Indeed,” he growled, pulling her up and capturing her lips in his. “Mastery would take a life-time of . . . exploration.” His voice continued to warm and excite her.

“Luckily, a lifetime is all the time I have,” she said, her eyes swimming with tears of joy as she pulled him back into her.

 

THE END

 


End file.
